June last year I wrote a post called Pride & Legacy, a quiet tribute to the weight of the rights we carry, and the joy we now get to live out loud. I’d been reflecting on what we inherit, and what we leave behind.

This feels like the next chapter of that.

Because as Mardi Gras draws near again, sequins out, playlists queued, glitter already finding its way into the carpet, I’ve been thinking about something else entirely.

We’re entering new territory.

For the first time in history, we’re watching a visible, out, and growing aging gay population.

And no one really knows what that means yet.

So many generations before us never came out. Or never got to grow old.

The AIDS crisis took a generation.

Many of the rest stayed silent, hidden, or erased.

Except for a few.

Like the 78ers, who marched when it was dangerous to even exist in public, let alone in protest.

Who paved the road that our parade now dances along.

They’re still here. They’re growing older.

And we’re lucky enough to witness it.

But are we prepared for what that means?

What does it look like to age in a community that still prioritises youth?

That values image, filters, energy, aesthetics?

Where are the queer-friendly aged care facilities? The retirement homes that understand chosen family and won’t bat an eyelid at two men sharing a room?

Who’s talking about health, connection, or intimacy for gay men over 60?

We say “chosen family” a lot, but do we choose to include our elders?

Do we make space for them not just in our protests and panels, but in our clubs, in our care systems, in our conversations?

We are becoming the queer elders we never had.

And the blueprint is being drawn in real time… by us.

I’m proud of what Mardi Gras has become.

A celebration. A protest. A reunion. A release.

But this year, while the lights flash and the bass drops, I’ll also be thinking of the quiet legacies of the men and women who didn’t get to grow old, and of those who did, and are still doing so with grace, sass, and perhaps a little sciatica.

This Mardi Gras, I want to carry all of it: the joy and the weight. The glitter and the grit.

Because the very fact that we get to wonder what queer aging even looks like?

That, in itself, is a gift we inherited.

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What legacy do you want to leave behind?

And how can we show up for our queer elders in a way that says, “We see you. We remember. We’re still marching… because of you.”