As Pride Month comes to an end, it feels like the right time to say something slightly controversial but hopefully understood in the spirit it’s intended.

Every year at work, someone asks me if I want a company Pride shirt.

And every year, I say no.

Not aggressively.
Not dramatically.
Not in a way that suggests I’m about to write a formal complaint to HR and copy in the CEO.

Just no.

Then, inevitably, someone asks:

“Why not?”

And I never quite know how to answer without sounding like I’m making A Statement.

Because it’s not that I hate the shirt.

I don’t.

It’s not that I hate Pride.

Obviously.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the company doing something visible to show support for the LGBTQIA+ community.

I do.

But personally?

I don’t need a T-shirt to show my pride.

I don’t need a logo, a rainbow print, or a limited-edition corporate casual Friday moment to prove that I support my community.

I show that by being here.

As myself.

Every day.

Sassy. Gay. Competent. Occasionally over-caffeinated. Sometimes emotionally available against my will.

I show it when I turn up to work and don’t leave parts of myself at the door.

I show it when I speak the way I speak, laugh the way I laugh, and make the comments I make with just enough HR-safe restraint to keep myself employed.

I show it by being openly, visibly, unmistakably me.

And by also being good at my job.

Because I think that matters.

Actually, I think that matters a lot.

There’s something powerful about people seeing you be gay and capable at the same time.

Gay and respected.

Gay and trusted.

Gay and strategic.

Gay and useful in a meeting that definitely could have been an email.

Gay and not reduced to the fun colourful side character who gets wheeled out in June for culture points.

Because for a long time, queer people in workplaces had to edit themselves.

Some still do.

We softened ourselves.
Straightened the edges.
Changed the pronouns.
Made the weekend sound less gay.
Answered “what did you get up to?” with a version that felt safer than the truth.

And sometimes we still make those calculations.

How much do I share?
Who is safe?
Will this change how they see me?
Am I being “too much”?
Am I being professional, or am I just masking?

So no, I don’t think pride at work is only about shirts.

Sometimes pride is saying “my ex-boyfriend” instead of “my ex.”

Sometimes pride is talking about Mardi Gras without lowering your voice.

Sometimes pride is mentioning a guy you’re dating in the same casual tone someone else mentions their wife.

Sometimes pride is letting people see your humour, your warmth, your softness, your edge, and your life without translating it into something more palatable.

Sometimes pride is just existing openly enough that someone else in the room thinks:

Oh. Maybe I can be myself here too.

That’s the part I care about.

Because I don’t want someone to look at me and think, “Mitch wore a rainbow shirt, so this must be an inclusive workplace.”

I want them to look at me and think:

Mitch is himself here.

Mitch is respected here.

Mitch is trusted here.

Mitch doesn’t have to shrink himself to be taken seriously.

And maybe, if they need it, they can take something from that.

A little permission.

A little reassurance.

A quiet signal that they don’t have to perform a version of themselves that makes everyone else more comfortable.

That they can be queer, or different, or loud, or soft, or complicated, and still belong.

Still contribute.

Still be valued.

Still be bloody good at what they do.

And look, if you love the Pride shirt, wear the Pride shirt.

Truly.

I support you.
I love that for you.
I hope the fabric breathes.

Visibility matters in different ways for different people. For some people, putting on that shirt might feel meaningful. It might feel like allyship. It might feel like celebration. It might feel like a small but important gesture.

That’s great.

But for me, pride isn’t something I put on over my outfit.

It’s something I carry into the room.

It’s in the way I speak.

The way I connect.

The way I challenge.

The way I show up.

The way I refuse, gently but firmly, to be less myself just because I’m at work.

So no, I probably don’t want the Pride shirt.

Not because I’m not proud.

Because I am.

Deeply.

I’m proud of who I am.

I’m proud of the community I come from.

I’m proud of every queer person who has had to fight, quietly or loudly, to be seen as both fully themselves and fully capable.

And I’m proud that I get to be visible in a way that isn’t just symbolic.

It’s lived.

Every day.

Even without the shirt.

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Maybe that’s what workplace pride means to me now.

Not just being celebrated once a year.

Not just seeing rainbows appear in June.

Not just being handed a shirt and asked to pose for a photo.

But being able to show up on an ordinary Tuesday as my full, authentic, slightly sassy gay self — and still be listened to, trusted, challenged, respected, and taken seriously.

That’s the kind of pride I care about.

The kind you don’t have to wear.

The kind people can feel.