A New Lens: Understanding Through Queer Representation

I never realised how limited my understanding of the LGBTQ+ community was until I encountered queer representation in a way that profoundly changed my perspective. I had always considered myself an open-minded ally, someone who believed in equality and respected diversity. But, as with many things in life, belief and understanding are two separate beasts. It wasn’t until I watched It's a Sin, a British TV miniseries that delves into the lives of young gay men during the 1980s AIDS crisis, that I began to grasp the depth of the LGBTQ+ experience. That show didn’t just open my eyes—it changed the way I viewed the world and the people around me.

Before watching It’s a Sin, I had vague knowledge of the AIDS epidemic. I knew the statistics, had read the occasional article, but it was all abstract to me, a distant historical event that happened to "other people" in another time. I didn’t understand the personal toll it took, how it affected relationships, families, and the sense of identity for those living through it. But in this series, those abstract ideas became raw and real. The characters were vibrant, flawed, and human in a way that deeply resonated with me.

There’s a particular scene that stands out, a moment that broke me and, simultaneously, opened my heart. Colin, one of the quieter characters, is diagnosed with AIDS. In his final days, his friends gather around him, showing him love and care, but the contrast between their kindness and the hostility of the outside world was jarring. His mother’s inability to comprehend her son’s identity and illness mirrored the broader societal ignorance at the time. That scene forced me to confront my own ignorance—not of the disease, but of the emotional landscape that comes with being queer in a world that often doesn’t understand or accept you.

The show didn’t just offer a window into the queer experience of the 1980s; it also made me reconsider how much fear and shame LGBTQ+ people still navigate today. Watching characters wrestle with internalised homophobia, societal rejection, and the cruel realities of illness, I began to reflect on how, even in more progressive times, those struggles haven’t entirely disappeared. The fear of being ostracised, of losing family, of not being fully seen or understood—it’s all still very present, even if the forms have changed.

For the first time, I felt a deep empathy for the daily, often invisible challenges that come with being queer. I realised how much courage it takes not only to come out but to continue living openly in a world that still grapples with acceptance. The series also helped me understand the significance of chosen families in the LGBTQ+ community. These characters loved each other fiercely, not because of shared bloodlines but because of shared experiences and the simple, profound need to be seen and loved for who they truly were. It made me appreciate the importance of those relationships in a way I hadn’t before.

This shift in my perspective extended beyond just the realm of historical or dramatic depictions of queer life. It changed how I approached conversations with LGBTQ+ friends and colleagues. I became more aware of the nuances of their experiences, more mindful of the language I used, and more conscious of the microaggressions that they, perhaps, had learned to shrug off but that I had been blind to. I began to see that support isn’t just about saying the right things or voting for the right policies—it’s about actively creating spaces where people feel safe and seen, free from assumptions and judgements.

I realised, too, that being an ally isn’t static; it’s a commitment to continual learning and understanding. Just because I thought I was supportive didn’t mean I couldn’t do more, couldn’t listen more deeply. After all, it’s one thing to say "I support you," but it’s another to truly stand beside someone in their journey, understanding where they’ve come from and what they’re still up against.

It’s a Sin gave me that lens, and for that, I’m grateful. It showed me that queer stories aren’t just about identity or politics—they are about humanity. They are about the desire for love, for connection, for acceptance. And those desires are universal, even if the obstacles are not.

In the end, this experience shaped my perspective in a way that’s difficult to put into words. It made me more empathetic, more aware, and—most importantly—more humble in realising that I’ll never fully understand what it’s like to live in a world that can still be hostile to your very existence. But I can listen. I can learn. And I can do better. Representation, as I’ve come to realise, isn’t just about seeing yourself in the world; it’s also about helping others see you—fully and without reservation. And when that happens, empathy becomes a bridge, a way to bring us all a little closer to true understanding.