Pride blooms in June like a field of wildflowers refusing to be tamed.
It is not just a parade of colors; it is a living, breathing testament —
a declaration that love is a force mightier than fear,
that identity, once whispered in dark corners, now dances freely in the sun.

Pride is a memory and a movement, both grief and celebration stitched into the same flag.
It is the ghost of Stonewall, the echo of bricks thrown by brave hands,
the slow, aching march from invisibility to visibility,
from survival to joy, from silence to songs that shake the sky.

Pride is every name that was once erased — now painted in bold strokes across banners and hearts.
It is Marsha's cry for justice, Audre's fierce, burning poems,
the ballroom floors spun into cathedrals, the first kiss not hidden, the hand held proudly in the street.

Pride reminds us that love is an act of resistance.
To exist openly, to laugh loudly, to kiss, to dance, to build family across every border —
these are rebellions.
These are revolutions in a world still learning to soften its fists.

Pride is not just for the ones who arrive safely at acceptance.
It is also for those still finding their voices, still lighting their lanterns in the dark.
It says: You are not alone. You are part of a chorus older than shame.

In this month, and in every month, Pride is the sunrise after a long, bitter night —
an endless blooming, a promise:
You are worthy of love. You are worthy of being seen.
You are, and have always been, enough.