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It's finally here.
Twin Cities Pride.

Last year, I hadn't even known it existed. Moving to Minnesota in the middle of July meant I showed up just after the glitter settled and the rainbow flags came down. But the second I found out about it—just a few months ago—I grabbed a marker, circled the dates on my calendar in thick rainbow ink, added three hearts and a sparkly gold star sticker, and swore I'd be there next time.

And now... next time was today.
And this time? I wasn't just going.

I was showing up as me.

I stood in front of the mirror, my heart pounding harder than it should've been for something as simple as suspenders. But these weren't just any suspenders—they were rainbow-striped and clipped proudly onto the waistband of my high-waisted denim shorts like I'd been waiting my whole life to wear them. Maybe I had.

My shirt was loose, breezy cotton with stripes in every shade of the rainbow—like someone had taken a paintbrush dipped in Skittles and spun it through sunshine. My nails? A chaotic collage of mismatched colors, chipped in places but painted with love and very little coordination during a late-night frenzy.

Around my neck, I wore my favorite enamel pin: half trans flag, half rainbow, with a heart right in the middle. It wasn't exactly the genderfluid flag, but it was close enough—and honestly? I liked that it didn't fit in just one box. Neither did I.

I adjusted it once more and stared at myself in the mirror. My eyeliner wasn't perfect, my hair had a mind of its own, and my heart felt like it was about to burst out of my chest.

And yet?

I felt... right.
Wrapped in color. Wrapped in love.
And even though I hadn't stepped outside yet—
I already felt like I belonged.

Just as I reached for my bag, the door creaked open. I looked up.

Lily stood in the hallway, her face lit up like she'd just won a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's rainbow factory. She wore a crisp white t-shirt with huge rainbow letters across the front that read:

PROUD ALLY.

Tiny rainbow hearts dotted the "O" and the "A," like she'd drawn them on with her gel pens. (She had.)

Standing beside her was Sam—same shirt, except his had a suspicious brownish smear near the sleeve.

"Is that syrup?" I asked, blinking back a laugh.

"Maybe," he said, shrugging like only Sam could shrug.

I opened my mouth to say something witty, but instead, my throat closed up. My chest ached—but not in a bad way. It was like my body didn't know what to do with this much love at once. And before I knew it, my eyes were blurring, tears gathering right at the edges.

"You okay?" Lily asked, her voice a little gentler now.

I nodded and let out a tiny laugh. "Yeah... I just wasn't expecting you two to match."

Sam grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. "Trendsetters."

"You're not going to Pride alone," Lily said, stepping forward and bumping her shoulder into mine.

And just like that, standing in the hallway in a house that used to feel temporary, in clothes that used to feel like costume, I felt something wrap around my heart and hold it there.

This wasn't just Pride.
This was family.

I wiped my tears away and followed them downstairs, determined not to mess up the one day my eyeliner had actually cooperated.

The kitchen smelled like toast and sunscreen. Mom stood at the counter, loading sandwich after sandwich into a collapsible cooler like she was preparing for a tactical picnic operation.

"The food at Pride is overpriced," she said matter-of-factly, layering slices of turkey like a pro. "So we bring our own. Hope no one minds turkey and cheddar."

"Turkey's perfect," I said, then glanced at her shirt—and froze.

Across her chest, in soft pastel letters, it read:

I ♡ My Gender Fluid Child
And on the back, as she turned to grab a roll of chips:

Free Mom Hugs

I nearly lost it again.

Then Dad walked in from the garage, keys jingling and a pair of neon sunglasses perched absurdly on his head. His shirt? Gray. Plain. But across the front in bold letters:

Free Dad Jokes
And underneath, in tiny font:
(Limit one per person. No refunds.)

I snorted. "You would wear that."

He opened the fridge, grinning. "I had it custom made. You're welcome."

I just stood there for a second—right in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by lunch bags and sunscreen and my weird, chaotic, beautiful family.

And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't waiting for something to go wrong.

I was just... breathing.

Dad hummed as he packed the trunk—folding chairs, picnic blankets, the cooler stuffed to the brim, plus Lily's sparkly backpack full of Pride-themed stickers she planned to "donate" to every stranger she met. (Sam had already claimed three.)

Inside, Mom zipped up the cooler and set it aside. Then she leaned against the counter and gave me a look—the kind of look that meant she was slowing down on purpose. Just to see me.

"You ready?" she asked.

I nodded, but she tilted her head like she could tell I wasn't quite sure.

"You sure?"

I hesitated, my hand unconsciously reaching up to adjust my flag pin. "I think so."

She stepped forward and gently tucked a loose piece of hair behind my ear, her fingers warm and steady. "You look beautiful, sweetheart."

Something fluttered in my chest. My breath caught.

She saw it happen. She pulled me into a hug, firm and familiar, and whispered into my hair:
"You don't have to be brave every second."

I melted into her arms.

"I didn't think I'd ever feel this way," I mumbled. "Like... I could just be myself. And be enough."

She rubbed my back in slow, reassuring circles. "That's all I ever wanted for you. For you to know that you're seen. That you're safe. That you're loved."

I nodded against her shoulder.

She smiled. "You're going to make someone cry at the festival looking that radiant."

"Mom—"

"Maybe even me. Again."

We both laughed, and it loosened the tightness in my chest just enough.

Dad popped his head back in, raising his eyebrows. "We all good? I've got three dad jokes locked and loaded, and no backup material."

"Oh God, no," I groaned.

"Too late," he said. "They're contractually obligated."

We piled into the car. Lily and Sam fought over the window seat like their lives depended on it. Mom claimed shotgun with the cooler at her feet. I wedged into the middle row beside two folding chairs and a bag of juice pouches that were probably for Lily but I'd totally steal later.

Dad started the engine, adjusted the mirror like he was about to perform on stage, and cleared his throat.

"Okay," he said. "As promised... Dad Joke #1: Why don't skeletons go to Pride?"

"No," I said immediately.

"Because they don't have the guts to come out!"

Sam let out a loud groan. Lily giggled.

"Number two," Dad said proudly. "Why did the rainbow break up with the cloud?"

"Why?" we all muttered in sync.

"Because it needed a brighter outlook."

Even Mom snorted at that one.

"And lastly..." he paused dramatically, just as the city skyline came into view over the freeway. "Why do dads love Pride?"

I don't know," I sighed.

He grinned wide. "Because it's the one time they can wear glitter and call it fashion?"

And this time? We all laughed.

The buildings got closer. I could already feel the music and smell the food trucks waiting just past the park gates. Rainbow flags peeked out from shop windows. People on sidewalks were already dressed like fireworks.

And me?

I was on my way.

To a place where I could show up, exactly as I am.
No hiding. No shrinking. No apologies.

Just pride.

The parking situation at Loring Park was, as predicted, a complete circus. We circled the area twice, each turn revealing more closed streets, more traffic volunteers waving cars along like we were in a never-ending parade. Eventually, Dad pulled over near the north entrance and threw the car into park long enough for us to pile out, arms full of tote bags, sunscreen, snacks, and tangled lawn chairs.

"I'll find a spot somewhere in Duluth," he joked as he climbed back in, already scanning the horizon for a glimmer of open pavement. "Text me when you see the funnel cake stand."

We waved him off and turned toward the entrance, where the world exploded into color.

It hit me the moment we stepped into the park. A sea of people, a living kaleidoscope of joy and identity. Everywhere I looked, flags fluttered in the breeze—progress flags, bisexual, lesbian, trans, pansexual, nonbinary, intersex, two-spirit, asexual, and more. Faces painted with glitter and hearts. Hair dyed every shade of the rainbow and some colors I didn't even know had names.

It was overwhelming in the best kind of way.
Like walking straight into a heartbeat.

The air buzzed with a kind of energy you couldn't describe, only feel—music pulsing from every direction, laughter ringing out like wind chimes in a summer storm. The scent of kettle corn, grilled cheese, fried plantains, and sweet lemonade mingled with sunscreen and cut grass.

I adjusted my genderfluid flag cape and tugged it tighter around my shoulders, like it was armor and wings all at once. This was my first Pride. And I was determined to remember everything.

We wandered past rows and rows of tents—over 650 vendors, each one bursting with color and purpose. There were booths for queer-owned businesses, local artists, mental health advocates, drag performers, and nonprofit orgs offering everything from STI testing to community mentorship programs. One stall had a sign that read: "Come as you are. Leave feeling seen."

I stopped at a booth showcasing art by genderfluid artists. Their work made me stop in my tracks. One canvas was a swirl of blues and magentas, gold leaf glinting like lightning bolts through a storm. Another was a single figure with shifting outlines and no clear face, surrounded by affirming words like "evolving," "expanding," and "real."

I stared at one piece—a watercolor of a person standing on a shoreline with waves turning into flames behind them—and something in my chest cracked open. I didn't know the artist's name. I didn't need to.

That art was me.

Not far away, the Rainbow Wardrobe booth pulled me in next. The volunteers smiled so warmly it made my knees wobble. A trans woman with a lilac pixie cut offered me a colorful scarf. "We think this one has your name written all over it," she said, tying it loosely around my neck. I didn't even need to look in the mirror to know she was right.

There was something healing about that exchange—not just the clothes, but the way she looked at me. Like I was whole. Like I didn't have to explain anything.

We continued winding through the park until we came across the Youth Hideaway—an oasis of beanbags, music, chalk art, and laughter. Teenagers and kids lounged in shade tents, some working on crafts, others dancing to a DJ spinning queer anthems. A sign above the tent read: "You Belong Here."

I joined an art station where we could decorate small paper flags with affirmations and trade them like kindness currency. I read messages like:

"Your identity is not a phase."
"You deserve love without explanation."
"You are not too much. You are just enough."

I added one of my own before slipping it into the mix:
"Fluid doesn't mean lost. It means free."

Someone I didn't know took it a minute later and smiled at me like we were old friends. Maybe we were, in some cosmic way.

As the day stretched into golden hour, the crowds didn't thin. If anything, they grew stronger—thicker with joy, louder with laughter, more alive. I saw a group of queer elders dancing with walkers decked in ribbons. A pair of newlyweds kissed beneath an arch of balloons. Kids blew bubbles into the air while someone sang "Rise Up" on a small stage across the pond.

I didn't want it to end.

But eventually, the air shifted, cooler now, brushing my skin like a soft goodbye. I tightened my scarf and looked down at the little tote bag in my hand—filled with stickers, pins, affirming messages, a button that said "They/Them and Thriving", and the bracelet a volunteer had given me "just because your vibe's immaculate."

Every item a tiny piece of proof that this place—this day—was real.

"We have to come back for the parade tomorrow," I said, clutching my tote like it was treasure. "Like, first thing in the morning. I want a front-row spot."

Mom smiled, brushing hair from her eyes, her cheeks still rosy from the sun. "We've got folding chairs, SPF 50, and enough leftover turkey to start a sandwich empire. I think we're good."

Lily marched ahead of us in her Proud Ally shirt, arms flailing dramatically as she showed off the glitter tattoo on her bicep. "I want rainbow face paint next time. And a flag. And one of those balloon hats that look like a unicorn horn!"

"You're turning into a walking Pride float," Sam muttered, but he was grinning. Earlier, I'd caught him—Sam, of all people—hugging a stranger who offered him a "Free Hugs" sticker. Twice. Voluntarily.

The walk back to where Dad had parked felt slower somehow. Like we were all dragging our feet, not quite ready to leave the bubble we'd spent the whole day floating in.

But I knew...
We weren't finished yet.
Not even close.

Tomorrow would bring the parade—floats, music, cheers echoing through the streets—and we'd be right there in the middle of it, cheering until our voices cracked and our hearts felt full to bursting.

I'd wear my flag again.
Not just because it was Pride.

But because I was proud.
Of who I was.
Of how far I'd come.
And of the family walking beside me every step of the way.

We walked back to the car, dragging our feet like they weighed twice as much as they had that morning. Pride had filled us to the brim—with color, sound, sun, emotion—but it had also worn us out in the best kind of way. My legs ached. My shoulders were sticky with dried glitter and sunscreen. Even my heart felt a little sore—tender from being cracked open and filled so full.

It wasn't even late. Just past six. But the sun still lingered above the tree line, bathing the world in that dreamy golden haze that only shows up at the end of long summer days—the kind of light that made everything feel like a memory while you were still living it.

"I don't know about the rest of you," Dad said as we finally reached the car, the trunk creaking open like it was tired too, "but I could go for something easy and filling."

Mom groaned in agreement as she sank into the passenger seat. "Preferably somewhere I don't have to cook... or clean... or think."

"I vote buffet!" Lily declared from the back seat, throwing her arms up like she'd just won a game show. "I want fries. And pudding. Together."

Sam recoiled slightly. "You're a menace to society."

But no one argued.

A buffet meant choices. No dishes. A seat and bottomless drinks. Basically, heaven on sore feet.

The place we ended up at wasn't fancy—one of those old-school family buffets with scuffed tile floors, flickering overhead lights, and trays that squeaked just enough to be mildly suspicious. The booths were covered in cracked vinyl, and everything had a faint smell of buttered rolls and mystery meat.

But it was familiar. Comforting. The kind of place where the food didn't matter so much as the fact that you didn't have to make it yourself.

And judging by the number of people still wearing rainbow beads and glitter-streaked cheeks, we weren't the only ones ending our Pride Day here.

I kept my flag-cape on. So did a few others.

The server who greeted us gave a knowing smile the moment she saw it. Her eyeliner sparkled faintly under the ceiling lights, and her apron was pinned with a tiny rainbow heart.

"Pride today?" she asked, grabbing a stack of napkins before we even sat down.

"Yeah," I said, still slightly breathless. "First time going."

Her smile widened into something real. "You picked a good year. Hope it was everything."

It was more than I could explain.
But I nodded anyway.

She led us to a booth near the window, the kind with the perfect view of the soda machine and exactly zero working air vents above it. We slid in, each of us letting out a little tired sigh.

Lily took off like a rocket the second we were cleared to grab food. When she returned, her plate was a chaotic masterpiece—three slices of pizza, a mountain of French fries, a few sad cubes of watermelon, and a bowl of chocolate pudding balanced right in the center like it was royalty.

Sam returned with breadsticks and macaroni. Just that.

"I'm not judging," I said, even though I 100% was.

"This is a strategy," he replied defensively. "Carbs now. Dessert later. Zero regrets."

I chuckled and grabbed a small plate of salad first, like I was trying to impress someone (I wasn't), then gave up and followed it with fried chicken and a brownie that looked... edible. Maybe.

We ate in waves—talking between bites, wandering back for seconds, occasionally stealing from each other's plates with the lazy familiarity only family could get away with.

Outside, the sun dipped a little lower. Inside, the room was alive with quiet laughter, soft conversation, and the clinking of trays. All around us, other Pride-goers filled the space—couples still holding hands, teens showing off their flags, parents tired but content. It felt like an extension of the festival. Like Pride hadn't ended. It had just followed us here.

"I still can't believe how big it was," I said, looking around the room, at the kids with their faces painted and the grown-ups who still wore their stickers like badges of honor. "It felt like the whole world showed up."

"It kind of did," Mom said, her voice soft, thoughtful.

"I liked the giant dog in the tutu," Lily announced, dipping her fries directly into her pudding. "And the drag queen with the bubble gun. She shot one right at Sam."

Sam sighed, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I let her. It's called manners."

"I liked the person who handed me a sticker and called me radiant," I said. "That was... really nice."

We all went quiet for a second, not because anyone was sad, but because sometimes joy has to sit in silence for a bit. It gets too big for words. It has to settle.

We went back for thirds. Lily made a tower out of mini cupcakes. Sam found jello and tried to pass it off as a "palate cleanser." Mom and Dad split a bowl of ice cream like they were on a date. I added rainbow sprinkles to a slice of cheesecake and didn't care that they clashed.

And somewhere between my second brownie and the melting ice in my root beer, something small and sacred settled in my chest. A quiet truth I hadn't even been looking for.

This wasn't just a meal after a long day.
It wasn't just pudding and pizza and too much soda.

This... felt like belonging.

Here. In this squeaky booth. With my cape still on and my heart still full.

I didn't have to earn it.
I didn't have to explain it.
It just was.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through my window, casting a golden hue across the posters on my wall and the cluttered trail of yesterday's clothes leading to the closet. I yawned and stretched, sore in the best kind of way—the way that meant the day before had been full of fun and laughter. And today?
Today was even bigger.

Pride Parade Day.

I practically jumped out of bed.

After a quick breakfast (okay, two bites of toast and a mouthful of orange juice because I was way too excited to sit still), I pulled on my outfit—a white tank top splattered with rainbow paint, cuffed jean shorts, and glittery sneakers that squeaked slightly on hard floors. Around my shoulders, I clipped on my genderfluid flag like a superhero cape. Because today, I didn't have to be quiet or careful about who I was. Today, I got to be loud.

Downstairs, Mom was loading her crossbody with sunscreen, portable fans, and a water bottle she kept reminding everyone not to forget. Sam wore a trans pride bandana and was already scrolling through the parade lineup on his phone. Lily had on a tutu made entirely of rainbow tulle and insisted on bringing her bubble wand. Honestly? It kind of completed the look.

We caught the Metro Transit bus, which was free all weekend for Pride. The ride felt festive even before we arrived. The bus was packed with people in rainbow socks, sequined dresses, unicorn horns, feather boas, and face paint. There was laughter, music playing softly from someone's speaker, and a grandma wearing a shirt that said "Free Mom Hugs – Come Get One." I got one. I almost cried.

When we got off near downtown, the streets were already buzzing. Hennepin Avenue was closed off and lined with barricades. Vendors sold flags, pins, and handmade jewelry from booths that spilled color in every direction. Drag performers in sky-high heels strolled by like royalty. A group of leather daddies waved to a bunch of teenagers carrying ace and bi flags, and everyone cheered.

We found a spot near the Accessibility Grandstand, which was shaded and offered a great view. I could already feel the bass of the music vibrating in the sidewalk beneath us.

The best part?

No Trevor. No Tasha.
No whispers or side-eyes or having to wonder if I was "too much" or "not enough."

Just laughter. Just music. Just joy.

I didn't have to hide or brace myself. I didn't have to flinch when I saw someone looking my way. Today, people looked—and smiled. Waved. Complimented my flag. Offered stickers and high-fives.

When the parade finally started at 11:00 sharp, it was like someone flipped a switch.

BOOM.

Confetti cannons fired from the first float, and a cheer went up so loud, birds scattered from the trees above. The Dykes on Bikes roared down the street first, revving their engines and waving leather-gloved hands. Then came the floats—dozens of them—each more colorful and outrageous than the last.

There was a unicorn float blasting Carly Rae Jepsen. A marching band dressed in rainbow kilts playing Lady Gaga. A float with drag queens dressed like Disney villains lip-syncing to "Poor Unfortunate Souls" and absolutely slaying it.

I lost count of how many flags I saw—rainbow, trans, nonbinary, pan, lesbian, intersex, and mine—each one fluttering in the wind like part of the same symphony.

I waved mine high.

A little kid standing nearby with glitter on their cheeks saw my flag and pointed. "That one's like me!" they told their dad. He smiled and said, "Yeah, it is." My throat tightened. I waved to the kid, and they waved back. Maybe they'd remember that moment. I know I would.

We danced in the street between floats. We cheered until our voices cracked. I caught three beaded necklaces and a sticker that said "Gender? I hardly know her!"

It was perfect.

After the parade wound down near Spruce Street, the crowd flowed like a rainbow river toward Loring Park, where the festival was in full swing. There were food trucks lined up along the edges—Thai, Ethiopian, mini donuts, tacos, shaved ice. Lily made us all stop for rainbow cotton candy, which got caught in her hair and made her look like a cupcake come to life.

Live music played from multiple stages. We watched a local queer indie band perform a dreamy cover of "Take On Me," and then a drag queen in a sequined jumpsuit hosted a dance-off for anyone under ten (Lily entered. She won a plush frog).

There were booths from queer artists selling hand-painted pins and zines. I bought a sticker that said, "They/them is not a phase. It's a vibe." Sam picked up a shirt that said "Trans Rights Are Human Rights" and wore it immediately.

We met a couple from Duluth who'd been married for twenty years and wore matching shirts that said "Still Queer, Still Here." They gave me a hug and said, "We're proud of you." I didn't even know them, but it still meant something.

We stayed until the sun dipped low in the sky, the golden hour making everything look even more magical. Music still played, people still danced. It felt like the whole park was breathing in unison, like we were all part of something bigger.

That night, lying in bed, my cheeks still sticky with cotton candy and my shoulders warm from the sun, I replayed the whole day in my mind.

The colors.
The music.
The laughter.
The freedom.

Attending the Twin Cities Pride Parade and Festival wasn't just a day out—it was a declaration. A moment where I didn't just feel accepted.

I felt celebrated.

I didn't have to explain myself.
Didn't have to shrink.
Didn't have to pretend.

I was me.

And in that sea of love, color, and community—I felt something I hadn't always let myself feel.

Proud.