Losing Ground in the Military

Growing up in Oklahoma, I was shaped by the quiet tension of keeping a part of myself hidden. I couldn’t fully understand what I felt or why I admired certain people in ways I couldn’t explain. I told myself it was admiration — wanting to emulate the confidence and charisma of someone I admired, not attraction. It was easier that way, safer. When I joined the military, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” made the rules clear: Hide or leave. I chose to stay, convincing myself that my sense of civic duty outweighed my identity, even when I had to pretend my partner was just a friend when we were in public or ignore the gnawing feeling of isolation during my first deployment. Those years were lonely and painful, but they also shaped the person I would become.

The repeal of DADT gave me a chance to hope. I could be myself while continuing to serve. Then, after being diagnosed with HIV, I learned what it meant to be visible in an entirely different way. I became an advocate — not just for myself, but for the HIV+ servicemembers who came after me, who needed to know they weren’t alone. I thought we had turned a corner, that the strength and safety of being visible would carry us forward. But now, as the tides shift, I see a troubling retreat from visibility, and it fills me with sadness and disappointment.

A Retreat from Visibility

In the face of political attacks on diversity, equity, and inclusion programs, many within the Department of Defense are retreating. Rainbow pins, ally flags, and symbols of support are disappearing from desks and walls. Membership in LGBTQ+ organizations is being hidden or erased. Public social media groups are turning private or vanishing altogether. These actions, taken out of fear, send a clear message — not to the detractors, but to the very people who relied on these symbols for safety and solidarity: You’re on your own.

I understand the fear. Fear of retaliation, fear of being targeted, fear of standing out when standing out feels unsafe. But the problem with retreating is that it cedes the ground to those who wish to create a hostile environment. It validates their efforts by making visibility look like something to fear, rather than a source of strength. Every symbol taken down, every connection erased, chips away at the progress we’ve made and tells those watching that being visible was never genuine — it was conditional, only acceptable when it was easy.

The Cost of Hiding

What makes this retreat so devastating is the message it sends to those who feel isolated or targeted. For years, we’ve worked to create spaces where people could feel safe and supported — where a symbol as small as a pin could mean the difference between silence and speaking out. By erasing these symbols, we remove those lifelines and leave people to navigate their struggles alone.

Worse, we show that our commitment to visibility wasn’t built on pride or principle, but on convenience. It says, “I’ll stand with you when it’s easy, but not when it’s hard.” That kind of message doesn’t just undermine the progress we’ve made; it creates a culture where people feel justified in their prejudice because the visible allies and advocates have disappeared.

Strength in Standing Firm

Visibility has always required courage. It wasn’t easy to come out in the military, even after DADT was repealed. It wasn’t easy to advocate for HIV+ servicemembers in a system that resisted change. And it isn’t easy now, when the political climate feels hostile and uncertain. But visibility is how we claim space and show others that they are not alone. It’s how we fight back against fear and stigma, how we create a culture where authenticity isn’t just tolerated — it’s celebrated.

When people take down their symbols or hide their affiliations, they don’t just protect themselves; they leave others vulnerable. They send the message that being LGBTQ+ or an ally is something to fear or be ashamed of, and that the work of progress can be undone with enough pressure. But history shows us that progress is only made when people stand firm, even when it’s difficult. Especially when it’s difficult.

This moment is a test, not just of policy but of character. The strength and safety of visibility don’t come from avoiding challenges but from facing them head-on. I hope those who feel the temptation to retreat will remember that, and that they’ll choose to stand firm — not just for themselves, but for the people who are watching, searching for a reason to believe that they, too, can be proud of who they are.