Where Did All the Rainbows Go? Don’t Dim the Light on Visibility & Love

I grew up believing that love was love. It didn’t matter who loved whom: two women, two men, a man and a woman. It simply didn’t matter. Love could take different forms. I could love chocolate and vanilla. I didn’t have to choose between the two. I could love a dog, a cat, a friend, a family member... and my friends who loved cats more than dogs weren’t any lesser because of what they loved. The same applied to whom they loved. I was no one to judge and it was as simple as that.

Love was never idealized or romanticized beyond recognition. It was just understood. I was actually in second grade when I first learned what “being gay” meant. We had just moved, and my neighbor Jayson, an extremely extroverted hairdresser, had a boyfriend. My parents explained it to me simply because it was normal, and it was love.

Over time, though, I began to understand that society often tries to define what love should look like. That being different could come with consequences. That the idea of “perfect love” doesn’t really exist. I remember once asking Jayson why he didn’t hold his partner’s hand in public. As time passed, I lost contact with him, but I continued to grow up and observe how the world changed: men holding hands in public, two people of the same gender kissing one another without shame... I started going to Pride as a celebration of love and openness.

Yet, this Pride Month, I find myself noticing a shift. What was once loudly and joyfully celebrated now feels quieter, even restrained. It's tamed by rising anti-woke sentiment in parts of the world. And I’ll be honest: I hesitated to write this. The fear of backlash has crept into places it never used to reach. But I won't let it get the best of me!

It’s not just a feeling. The numbers tell a story too: This year, 39% of Fortune 1000 companies plan to reduce their investments in Pride-related events and initiatives. In San Francisco, long-time sponsors like Comcast, Anheuser-Busch, Diageo, Amazon, Google, and Meta have pulled funding — creating up to $300,000 in lost sponsorship. (Source: Forbes)

There are less Diversity and Inclusion jobs too. After a peak in 2023, we've seen a decrease of at least 5% since as per recent studies.

So, what’s behind this shift? Is it backlash fatigue? Budget cuts? Or a pivot in the world of inclusion?

I keep reading and hearing that the focus is shifting beyond “diversity” and “inclusion” toward concepts like “belonging” and “culture”... a sign of a broader, more nuanced understanding of what it takes to create a workplace where everyone feels valued.

But I can’t help wondering: in this shift, are we leaving behind those who still urgently need visibility?

There’s a real risk in letting visibility shrink, especially when representation is what matters most.

Because representation does matter.

Seeing yourself reflected in leadership, in media, in your workplace, shapes your sense of worth, your potential, and your place in society. For marginalized communities, being seen isn’t just symbolic. It’s about safety. It’s about opportunity. It’s about dignity and the right to exist fully and freely.

Inclusion should never be reduced to a campaign or a calendar month. It’s a constant, year-round commitment: a commitment to showing up, to standing beside people, even (especially) when it’s uncomfortable. On that, I completely agree. But does that mean we should stop celebrating moments like Pride Month in order to be more universally inclusive?

To my knowledge, I was never excluded from Pride just because I’m not part of the LGBTQIA+ community. As an ally, I’ve always felt that Pride like any expression of inclusion is something we all have a role in supporting. And these moments of celebration were happy moments where I became more aware and curious of our differences in a loving way.

So I question: how is celebrating the differences of some the exclusion of others? Why do we continue to view inclusion through such a binary lens?

You can celebrate the differences of one group, and then another, and then another. In fact, we should. That’s how we make room for everyone.

So maybe the question we should all be asking this Pride Month is:

What does sustained, authentic, visible inclusion look like not just in June, but every day?

I’ll end with something I’ve learned and now try to pass on to someone small and dear to me:

There are no limits to love.

Love isn’t something we run out of. It expands the more we give it. You can offer it in kindness. In understanding. In advocacy. In simply showing up.

You can spread love like a wildfire, not the kind that destroys, but the kind that warms everything it touches. The kind that catches in others and keeps moving, quietly changing the world.

That’s the kind of love and world I believe in.