When we Stand Together, We Expand Together

I am not queer.

That feels important to say—not to center myself, but to be honest about the position I speak from. I don’t know what it’s like to walk into a room and immediately scan it for safety, wondering if a glance, a joke, or a single word might shift everything. But I know what it means to love someone who does. I know what it’s like to watch someone soften their voice or swallow their truth. I’ve seen people I care about carry themselves with quiet courage in a world that makes their identity a battleground.

I’ve learned that when identity is under pressure, silence doesn’t make you neutral—it makes you complicit. So I speak.

It isn’t always in speeches or protests. Sometimes it’s in eye contact across a room. Sometimes it’s in the way I answer a question. Sometimes it’s the conversation I don’t let slide. Allyship isn’t a performance—it’s a posture. It’s about listening more than talking. Showing up more than showing off. Knowing when to step up and when to step aside.

I’ve never had to justify my love or explain my pronouns. No one has questioned whether I deserve to feel safe. That’s a privilege I carry—and I carry it with awareness. Not guilt. Not shame. But a deep understanding that this comfort gives me space.

Space to speak when others can’t.

Space to be the steady voice in the room.

Space to shift the temperature of a conversation before it turns cold.

And I use that space.

I stand alongside the people I love—not because I need to be seen doing it, but because they deserve to be seen fully. I believe in a world where everyone is free to be whole. Not edited. Not filtered. Not half-versions of themselves designed for someone else’s comfort.

Why? Because identity should never be something someone has to defend.

I’ve seen what it costs to carry queerness in certain spaces. I’ve watched people calculate every word in a room, trying to sense who’s safe and who’s not. I’ve seen resilience in the way they laugh, love, and live anyway. That kind of strength is often quiet. It doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it’s simply the decision to keep showing up.

And when someone lets me see them fully—when they open that part of themselves and trust me enough to share it—I don’t take that lightly. That’s not something to debate. It’s something to protect.

I may not be queer. But queerness has shaped me—through the people I love, the stories I hold, the conversations that stretch me, and the beauty I’ve been privileged to witness. It’s made me softer. Stronger. It’s taught me that identity doesn’t need to be easily defined to be real. That complexity is not confusion. That love is not linear, and wholeness doesn’t always look like what we were taught.

I’ve seen what happens when people feel safe to be themselves—when they’re not just tolerated but embraced. I’ve seen what happens when they no longer have to shrink, simplify, or second-guess their joy. I’ve seen people light up when they realize they can be fully known and still fully loved.

That’s what I want more of. Not just tolerance. Not even just acceptance.

We need celebration.

We need real belonging.

We need a world where softness isn’t mistaken for weakness—but recognized as power.

Where people aren’t praised just for surviving—but supported enough that they don’t have to.

Pressure doesn’t always look like violence. Sometimes it’s subtle. It’s the silence after a joke. The look someone gives when you mention a partner. The way your truth is met with discomfort instead of curiosity. That’s a different kind of weight—and it adds up.

I’ve seen that weight. I’ve watched my friends carry it. And while it’s not mine to hold completely, I can walk beside them. I can share what I can. Learn where I need to. Show up even when it’s hard—especially when it’s hard.

When someone invites you into their truth, that’s not a burden. It’s a gift.

You don’t need to fix it.

You need to hold it.

Honor it.

Believe it.

Allyship isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being present.

It’s not about leading—it’s about walking with.

It’s not about using your voice over someone else’s—it’s about using your voice when someone else’s is being ignored.

The real work happens in the quiet moments.

In how you carry yourself.

In how you let people be human around you without asking them to explain that humanity.

Sometimes, it looks like correcting a friend.

Sometimes, it looks like asking better questions.

Sometimes, it looks like simply saying:

“You don’t have to shrink here. Not with me.”

And that’s why I keep showing up.

Not because it’s expected.

Not because it makes me look good.

But because I believe in love.

I believe in freedom.

I believe in truth.

I believe in creating spaces where no one has to question their worth.

Where joy doesn’t need to be muted.

Where softness doesn’t need to be toughened up.

And I believe, deeply, that when we stand together, we expand together.

That’s not just a phrase. That’s a promise.

When we make space for each other to be whole, we become more whole ourselves.

When we listen deeply, we understand more.

When we choose connection over division, we grow—collectively, exponentially, beautifully.

No, I don’t wear the flag as a symbol of my identity.

But I wear it proudly.

I carry it when someone else is too tired.

I hold it steady when the wind picks up.

I plant my feet and say, “You’re safe here.”

That’s what allyship means to me.

It isn’t speaking for, but standing with.

It isn’t waiting for applause, but showing up anyway.

It isn’t backing down just because it’s easier to blend in.

This is about love.

It’s about people.

It’s about dignity.

It’s about expansion.

And I will keep showing up.

Even when it’s uncomfortable—especially when it’s uncomfortable.

Why?

Because I’ve seen what happens when we stand together.

When we stand together, we expand together. —Annie Edwards