NYAS Operations Manager Rob reflects on what Pride means to him in 2026.
Content note: This post includes discussion of LGBTQIA+ discrimination and references to the Pulse nightclub shooting in 2016.
For a while, I wasn't sure whether Pride still meant very much to me. Every June, the rainbow logos appeared. Organisations rediscovered their allyship. Brands wrapped themselves in the language of inclusion before moving on again come 1st July. What had once felt radical increasingly felt commercial, and what had once felt like a movement sometimes felt like an event or tick-box.
As an openly gay man who has spent more than twenty years out of the closet, I found myself becoming increasingly cynical about Pride and what it had become.
Growing up in the bustling, multicultural metropolis of North Devon (yes, sarcasm), I was drawn to Pride like a moth to a rainbow-coloured flame. Like many LGBTQIA+ people, I was searching for belonging, acceptance and a sense of community.
I still remember my first visit to Brighton Pride in the 2000s. I remember the awe of seeing thousands of people openly living, loving and celebrating who they were. It felt joyful, liberating and most importantly, safe.
However as I got older my feelings became more complicated. Pride often felt increasingly commercialised, with companies competing for attention and the so-called "pink pound". At times, I also felt disappointed by how fractured parts of our community could be; the sense of togetherness I had once found so inspiring sometimes felt harder to see.
I wondered whether Pride had become more about sponsorship than solidarity. More about branding than belonging.
Looking back, I can also see that some of my cynicism may have come from a place of privilege. I consider myself fortunate: I have supportive family and friends, and I have largely felt safe being open about who I am in both my personal and professional life. As those things became "normal" for me, it became easier to forget that they are not universal experiences. The more normal acceptance became in my own life, the easier it was to mistake my personal comfort for collective progress.
Perhaps when you feel accepted, Pride can start to feel less essential. It is only when you step back and look at the experiences of others, and at the wider social and political landscape, that you remember why it still matters.
And over the last few years, and particularly this year, I have found myself falling back in love with Pride.
Not because it is perfect.
Not because I suddenly feel less cynical about rainbow capitalism.
But because I have been reminded why Pride existed in the first place.
The first Pride was a protest. The Pride marches we know today grew from the Stonewall riots of 1969 and the demand that LGBTQIA+ people be treated with dignity, equality and respect.
Pride was never simply about celebration. It was about visibility, resistance and refusing to accept injustice as the status quo.
Progress can feel inevitable when you have spent years moving forwards. It is only when you see rights questioned, protections challenged or communities targeted that you realise how fragile progress can be. Those issues have not disappeared.
In recent years, we have seen intense scrutiny and debate surrounding transgender people. Whatever people's views on specific policies or legal interpretations, I have found some of the hostility, ridicule and joyful celebration of others' distress genuinely difficult to witness. Human rights should never be treated as a spectator sport.
More broadly, we are seeing the growth of political movements, both here and abroad, that seek to roll back protections, challenge inclusion initiatives or portray minority groups as problems to be solved rather than people to be understood.
One example that struck me this year was Durham Pride. Last year, it was announced that funding would be withdrawn for Durham Pride 2026. Yet what happened next was a powerful reminder of what Pride is really about. Trade unions, community organisations and local people rallied together to support it, raising many times the amount that had been lost! Rather than disappearing, Durham Pride returned in 2026 bigger than ever before.
That story feels symbolic of Pride itself.
This year also marks ten years since the Pulse nightclub shooting in Orlando, where 49 people were murdered and 53 others injured in an attack targeting the LGBTQIA+ community and their friends.
I was in Orlando last month and made a point of visiting the memorial. Standing there ten years later was an emotional experience. I remember hearing the news in 2016 and believing it was one of those moments that would force society to confront hatred and choose a better path.
What struck me most was the sense of remembrance. Ten years on from the attack, the original Pulse nightclub has now been demolished to make way for a permanent memorial, ensuring that the lives lost there will not be forgotten. Standing there, I found myself thinking about how easily events like Pulse can become "history" to younger generations, and how important it is that we continue to remember not only what happened, but why it happened.
I also found myself wondering whether we are actually any less divided now than we were then…? But it also reminded me why Pride still matters. Hope.
Hope in young people who feel able to be themselves in ways previous generations could only dream of.
Hope in families, friends and allies who stand alongside LGBTQIA+ communities.
Hope in the simple act of people gathering together and saying, "You belong here."
Pride is not simply a celebration of how far we have come. It is also a statement about the world we want to build. A world where people are safe and where difference is respected. Where diversity is celebrated rather than feared and where everyone can live openly and authentically without worrying whether their rights, dignity or humanity are up for debate.
Working for an organisation that exists to champion rights, amplify voices and stand alongside people who are too often unheard, those values feel especially relevant.
So this year, Pride feels different to me. It feels less like a party and more like a reminder:
A reminder that progress is never inevitable.
A reminder that rights can be won, but they can also be challenged.
A reminder that solidarity matters.
That allyship matters.
That advocacy matters.
Because in a world that can sometimes feel increasingly divided, perhaps Pride matters now more than ever.
