Why We Still Need Pride—Especially in Small Towns

Today didn’t go the way I planned. I showed up for the first-ever Wise Pride in Wise County, Virginia, ready to represent my work, my identity, my voice—and it ended up being a hard day. It was hot. It was slow. Passersby yelled slurs. Some people honked their horns to show support. I suffered from heat exhaustion and had to fight through waves of dizziness just to stay upright. I had to sit down when I wanted to stand tall.

But I don’t regret being there. Because this is exactly why Pride still matters—especially in small towns.

It matters for the compassionate friends, and strangers alike, who brought me ice and water, checked on me without hesitation, and offered me comfort in small but powerful ways. Kindness like that shines brightest when everything else feels dim.

It matters for the young queer woman—maybe 20 years old—who stopped in her tracks when she saw the cover of Reborn In Shadows. Her eyes widened and her face lit up. She pointed to the main character, Miriam Ryder—a below-the-knee amputee and a trans woman—and her eyes seemed to say, “That’s me.” And it was. It is. That’s what representation looks like. That’s what it does. That’s part of why I wrote this book.

It matters for the woman who moved here from a larger city years ago and still feels the sting of culture shock. Who told me that hearing about Miriam's struggles adjusting to life in Jasper Hill felt like hearing her own story. That quiet recognition? That’s a spark. That’s connection.

And it matters because even though the crowd was smaller than we hoped, we showed up. And in doing so, we sent a message:

We are not invisible.
We are not ashamed.
We are not going anywhere.

I saw bravery today. In the vendors who stood under the same blazing sun. In the attendees who smiled, laughed, and danced despite everything. In every person who chose to be visible in a town where it’s often safer not to be.

Pride isn’t just parades and celebration. Sometimes, it’s resilience. Sometimes, it’s a folding table under a tent in the heat. Sometimes, it’s a queer woman selling a book she wrote with shaking hands and a full heart.

Sometimes, Pride looks like survival.

And that’s why we need it—now more than ever.

—
If you were there, thank you. If you weren't, we still felt you. And if you’re reading this from a small town and wondering if you matter, if you’re seen, if your story is worth telling—
You do.
You are.
It is.

We’re not done yet.