We are everywhere. We always have been.

I am a bisexual woman dating a lesbian, and people still find ways to make that sound confusing, suspicious, or up for debate. I have been told I do not “look gay.” I have been asked why I would “choose” to be with a woman if I have the “choice” to be with a man. I have heard the concern wrapped in politeness, prayer, curiosity, judgment, and sometimes even love: Do I understand what I am doing to my son by raising him in a two-woman household?

That question is never just a question.

It suggests that love becomes dangerous when it is not heterosexual. It suggests that a home with two women must be missing something. But during Pride Month, let me say this for every rainbow family: our children are not missing love, security, joy, or possibility. We are raising exceptional children in homes built with intention, honesty, and care.

I thought about this while watching Shrill, the series starring Aidy Bryant as Annie, a writer whose “Hello, I’m Fat” essay offends her mother, creates tension at work, invites trolls, and still liberates her. That is what truth often does. It sets us free, but it also makes people uncomfortable because it removes their ability to pretend they did not know.

That is how it can feel to be queer at home, at work, and in public.

A mother might say, “You don’t have to post your business.” A coworker might pause when you say “my girlfriend.” A professional setting might make room for everyone else to mention husbands, wives, anniversaries, and family vacations, but somehow your same-sex partner becomes “personal information.”

People talk freely about family until your family enters the room. Then suddenly, discretion becomes the expectation.

But discretion is not the same as privacy. Privacy is a choice. Discretion, when demanded only from queer people, is a bigger closet with better lighting.

No one tells a straight woman she is making her sexuality her whole personality because she has a wedding photo on her desk. No one says a man is pushing an agenda when he brings his wife to the company picnic. But queer people are asked to edit ourselves in real time. Say partner, not girlfriend. Say family, but do not be too specific. Bring your whole self to work, but maybe not that part.

And if we have children, the scrutiny doubles.

Gallup reports that about 9% of U.S. adults identify as LGBTQ+, and bisexual adults make up the largest share of that population. The Williams Institute estimates that more than 1.2 million adults in the United States identify as Black and LGBT, 61% of Black LGBT adults are women, and 44% of Black LGBT women are raising children, nearly the same rate as Black non-LGBT women.

So when people act like Black queer women are new, confused, trendy, or rare, I need them to understand: we have been here.

For Black queer women, the pressure to shrink is layered. We carry family, cultural, professional, and spiritual expectations. At work, a 2025 Williams Institute report found that more than half of Black LGBTQ employees reported discrimination or harassment because they are LGBTQ. So when people say, “You don’t have to tell everybody your business,” what I hear is: be smaller, be palatable, be safe.

That is why public truth-telling matters. When Porsha Williams of The Real Housewives of Atlanta publicly shared her relationship with Patrice “Sway” McKinney, many of us recognized something familiar. Not because her story belongs to us, but because we know what it means when a Black woman decides society does not get to be the final author of her happiness.

Living out loud does not mean everyone gets access to everything. It means we stop pretending for other people’s comfort.

And yes, when you live or write openly, the trolls may come. Shrill showed that part too. Annie told the truth, and people had something to say. Somebody will always have something to say about my child, my relationship, my womanhood, my bisexuality, my home, my choices, or my audacity to speak.

But let them talk.

People be gay.

And people be trolls too.

Trolls are usually loud because someone else’s freedom has reminded them of their own fear. I do not have to organize my life around that fear.

We are in the family group chat. We are on the school pickup line. We are leading departments, writing policies, caring for elders, raising babies, planning birthday parties, and sitting at the head of conference tables.

Let us post the picture without scrutiny.

Let us bring our person to the event without the whispers.

Let us parent without being treated like an experiment.

During Pride Month, my gay anthem is simple: people be gay.

And to me, that means more than sexuality. It means queer people deserve the freedom to live without shrinking. We should not have to hide our families, soften our truth, or make our love easier for others to accept. Our partners, children, homes, and happiness are not up for debate.

Queer people are living full, beautiful, ordinary lives every day. Some are bisexual. Some are lesbian. Some are still finding the words. Some are finally speaking a truth they had to bury for years. They are your auntie, your boss, your neighbor, your church member, your child, your favorite cousin and ’nem.

And many of us are mothers, raising children in homes filled with intention, honesty, protection, laughter, and love. We are not ruining our children by loving out loud. We are raising them to know that love should never require hiding.

So when you see us, think of that meme and think of me, reminding the world that yes, some of your loved ones, the people you admire, the people you get fashion inspiration from, your favorite teacher, your favorite celebrity, the person leading the room, raising the babies, praying in the pews, and loving their family out loud—be gay.

People be gay.

Natalie Williams is a Public Voices Fellow with The OpEd Project in partnership with the National Black Child Development Institute.