Pride Month matters. But it’s not enough.

We need it—don’t get me wrong. We need the parades, the flags, the joy, the remembrance, the visibility. Especially now, when hate is clawing its way back into public policy and polite society, wearing new masks but preaching the same old bigotry. Pride Month is necessary.

But it’s also insufficient.

Because queer people don’t exist for a month. They don’t stop needing rights, safety, community, love, and dignity just because it’s July 1st and Target packed away the rainbow socks. Pride isn’t a costume we wear for thirty days a year; it’s a fight, a home, a truth. And it shouldn’t have to be extraordinary.

We need a world where it’s not an announcement, not a spectacle, not a threat to the status quo to simply say, “That’s Larry and his husband.” Or, “That’s Jules. They’re nonbinary.” Or even, “That’s Kendra. She’s poly, pan, and probably hacking the security system because someone threatened her wife.”

We need Pride Year. Pride always. Pride as default, not event.

I’m not here to pretend I’ve always gotten it right. I haven’t. I’ve misstepped, misspoken, and learned some things the hard way. And I know I’ll screw up again—because being an ally isn’t a checklist you complete; it’s a practice. A commitment. You show up. You listen. You grow. You stay in the damn fight, even when it’s uncomfortable.

Because the alternative is silence. And silence is complicity.

That’s why my books are filled with queer characters—not as an afterthought or a sales gimmick, but because that’s the world I believe in. That’s the future I want to see. One where being queer isn’t a headline—it’s just life. One where every kind of love and identity belongs on the page, on the screen, and on the streets without apology.

I write hopepunk for a reason.

Because I believe the future can be better—but only if we make it that way. Not through grand speeches or perfect politics, but through stubborn optimism and relentless compassion. Through characters who love fiercely and fight harder. Through stories that shine a light into the dark and say, “We’re still here. We’re not backing down. And we’re not leaving anyone behind.”

If one narrow-minded reader picks up one of my books and finds themselves falling for Kendra Cassidy—a woman who is joyfully pan, defiantly poly, and unapologetically devoted to her chosen family—and that makes them pause, think, question what they’ve been taught?

Then I’ve done my job.

I’m going to keep doing it. Telling these stories. Holding the line. Making space.

Because Pride shouldn’t come with a time limit. Because queer lives are not seasonal content. Because love—messy, beautiful, inconvenient love—is worth defending. Year after year. Story after story.

This is who I am. This is what I do.

And I’m not stopping.