Each June, we kick off Pride Month with celebration, reflection, and, if we’re being honest, some tension. Because even in 2025, there are still places where being out isn’t just uncomfortable. It feels risky. It feels complicated. It feels like something you have to calculate. Pride Month brings attention to how and why LGBTQ+ visibility matters.
And that includes a lot of rural communities.
Why do we have to hide in the first place?
Why do so many of us still feel like we have to hide who we are in the places we call home?
I’ve known couples in rural communities who have lived quietly together for years but without ever being very visible about their relationship. And I don’t know why, exactly. But I do wonder:
Are we afraid of what it might cost us?
Would coming out change how our neighbors treat us?
Would we still be welcome at the local meeting or industry organization?
I’ve asked myself these questions. When I was in an earlier relationship in a small town, I often found myself hesitating in public or social situations. Is this a space where we could sit close like other couples? Could we hold hands without drawing attention at this event? Would mentioning my partner raise eyebrows, lead to that awkward silence, or spark a negative reaction?
Those are questions I carry. And when no one else around you is visible, it’s easy to feel like the safest thing to do is stay quiet. To blend in. To hide that part of your life.
Visibility looks different for everyone, and that’s okay. There’s no right way to be out.
Visibility changes what feels possible
But then something shifts when you see someone who is visible. Someone who shows up as their whole self. It’s not about being loud or waving a flag (though there’s value in that, too). Sometimes, it’s just about someone saying, “Yeah, my partner and I live here. We raise cattle here. We belong here.”
That kind of visibility cracks the door open for others. It changes the tone. It makes it easier to imagine that maybe we don’t have to hide forever. That maybe we can be ourselves and stay connected to the communities we love.
It still catches me off guard
Even now, even years after coming out, even after writing on the topic, I still sometimes freeze when someone unexpectedly wants to talk about Drag Race or LGBTQ+ culture. Not because I’m ashamed, but because I’ve learned to guard that part of myself. I’ve learned to wait for signs that it’s safe to be open about who I am without criticism or judgment from others.
But every time someone welcomes that part of me, whether it’s a genuine question, a friendly comment, or simply being treated like any other neighbor, it chips away at that fear. And that makes a difference.
Let’s be honest: Pride still matters
Yes. Pride Month still matters in 2025. Maybe more than it has in years.
We’re living in a time when diversity and inclusion are under attack (again) across nearly every part of society. From social media outrage to news commentary to political talking points, we’re constantly being bombarded with messages that anything outside the perceived status quo is somehow a threat. And LGBTQ+ people are too often at the center of that backlash.
That’s exactly why Pride Month is still so important.
Pride isn’t just a celebration. It’s a reminder that we exist, we contribute, and we belong, even when the loudest voices try to tell us otherwise. It’s a way to reclaim space and to remind ourselves, and others, that our identities are not up for debate.
Agriculture is built on relationships between people, land, and livestock. And who we are shapes how we show up in those relationships, whether we talk about it or not.
When people ask, “Why don’t other groups get a month?”, that question misses the point entirely. It assumes that everyone starts on equal footing and that visibility is automatic for all. But in so many places, especially in agriculture and rural communities, LGBTQ+ people still struggle to feel seen.
Pride Month isn’t about special treatment. It’s about visibility and safety in places where LGBTQ+ people still face silence, stigma, or risk.
I explored this further in a previous post about heteronormativity in agriculture, and how straight relationships and identities are often treated as the default. That’s the heart of the issue. Pride Month pushes back on that unspoken rule. It offers space where people like me can show up without apology or explanation.
Pride gives us a platform to push back with courage, not conflict, with joy, not just resistance. And it gives our allies an opportunity to stand with us when it counts most.
What you can do whether you’re LGBTQ+ or an ally
- If you’re LGBTQ+ in a rural space: Know that your story matters. Even if you’re not ready to be visible, you are not alone.
- If you can be visible safely: Know that your presence helps others believe they might belong here too.
- If you’re an ally: Speak up. Listen. Offer support. Let people know you’re a safe place to land. Those small signals mean more than you know.
We deserve more than silence
I want to live in a rural community where being LGBTQ+ doesn’t require courage, where it’s simply part of the diversity we all share. Where we don’t have to weigh every conversation. Where we don’t have to wonder if we’re welcome.
We get closer to that with every story shared. Every hand held. Every neighbor who shows kindness instead of judgment.
This Pride Month, I’m grateful for the people who are visible. I’m hopeful for those still finding their way. And I’m reminded again and again that the more we show up, the more we make space for each other.
Follow the stories, share your own, and learn how you can contribute to Pride In Agriculture. Visibility matters. And so do you.
Want to strengthen your visibility year-round?
Pick up a Pride In Agriculture sticker. Or pick up some Pride In Ag merch. All proceeds go toward maintaining Pride In Agriculture and helping these resources reach larger audiences.
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