Today, May 17, is IDAHOBIT—the International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia, Interphobia, and Transphobia. It’s a day to draw attention to the discrimination and violence LGBTQIA+ people face worldwide—but also a day to reclaim space, to be visible, and to celebrate who we are.
With that in mind, I want to focus on something that is often overlooked: queer joy—our joy.
When we talk about queer lives, we often tell stories of hardship. Of coming out. Of being misunderstood. Of having to fight for basic rights. And don’t get me wrong—these stories are important. They need to be heard. They are part of our shared history.
But they are not the whole story.
What is often overlooked or only mentioned in passing is joy. Not only the big, glittering joy of Pride parades (though that has its place too), but the quiet, intimate, everyday joy that shapes us—and our lives.
Queer joy is a kind of magic. It is resilient. It is consciously chosen. And it is absolutely vital.
As a queer person and a neurodivergent person, I’ve spent a lot of time in spaces where I felt I had to make myself smaller or hide parts of myself just to feel safe. That leaves marks. It makes you hyper-aware of differences. It teaches you to scan every room before you speak. And sometimes it teaches you to expect resistance before you expect connection.
But then—there are these moments.
Moments like hearing a queer lyric on the radio and realizing: someone out there understands me. Or seeing someone confidently express their gender in public—and feeling a quiet, internal “yes.”
These aren’t dramatic movie scenes. This is real life. And it matters—because for many of us, these are signs of healing, of authenticity, of being at home within ourselves.
There is power in choosing joy when you didn’t expect it.
It is an act of resistance to love yourself out loud, to create a chosen family, and to transform shame into pride.
What I’ve learned over the years is that queer joy often sneaks up on you. It isn’t always flashy or loud (unless you want it to be). Sometimes it lives in how you decorate your room. In how you show up for your friends. In how you care for your inner child.
It is deeply personal. It doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s.
That’s the kind of joy I want more of—the kind I want to notice, name, protect, and share.
And I think we should talk about it more.
Because if we only talk about trauma, we forget to make space for healing. For dreams. For pleasure. For art. For friendships that feel like family.
Queer joy is the reason we fight. It is what we are fighting for.
So this is a reminder—to myself and to everyone reading this:
Don’t underestimate the small things. Write them down. Celebrate them. Tell your friends about them. Collect your moments. Create spaces where others can find theirs too.
Because queer joy is not a luxury.
It is a necessity.
And the small moments?
They mean everything.