In Honor of Pride Month: the Limitless Power of Love

I still remember where I was sitting when my brother told me he was gay. We were teenagers—just beginning to find our footing in a world that rarely explained itself to us. Growing up in the Midwest in the 1980s, I lived in a bubble of sorts. We were surrounded by cornfields, church pews, and people who meant well but didn’t always understand the world beyond their front porch. So when my brother came out to me, I didn’t fully grasp what he meant.

It wasn’t long after that we heard the name Matthew Shepard. I didn’t know him, but I remember his face on the television, the way my chest ached with questions I didn’t yet have words for. Matthew was a young man—someone’s son, someone’s friend—who was beaten, tied to a fence, and left to die because he was gay.  The other face I vividly recall was my brothers… his eyes filled with a deep sadness I may never truly understand.  But I felt it.  The hurt.  The anger.  The fear.

That was the moment I understood that there were people in this world who would rather destroy love than try to understand it. That’s when the weight of my brother’s truth—and his courage—came into full view.

Pride, Protest, and the Power of Visibility
Pride is so often mistaken for noise or flash or celebration without cause. But at its core, Pride is a declaration: I am here. I am whole. I am worthy of love. That declaration was born out of resistance.

In June of 1969, LGBTQ patrons of the Stonewall Inn—many of them Black and Brown trans women—rose up against a police raid and said no more. What followed wasn’t a party—it was a protest. Days of unrest. Demands for dignity. The right to exist without fear.

One year later, that resistance turned into the first Pride march. A public act of courage. A reclamation of space.

It’s important we don’t forget that. Pride didn’t begin as a celebration. It began as a cry for freedom.

Wholeness Lives at the Intersections
Over the years, I’ve come to understand that identity is rarely simple or singular. It’s layered. It’s lived. And so often, the most vulnerable among us live at the intersections of multiple identities.

One of those intersections—often ignored or misunderstood—is the space where disability and queerness meet.

Neurodivergent and intellectually disabled individuals are part of the LGBTQIA+ community. And yet, they are often left out of the narrative. The truth is: autistic individuals are three times more likely to identify as transgender. And nearly 70% of autistic people identify as non-heterosexual. These aren’t just statistics. These are stories. People. Real lives, too often dismissed or denied the space to be both disabled and queer.

In his powerful book We’re Not Broken: Changing the Autism Conversation, Eric Garcia writes:
“If there is going to be policy that has seismic impacts on their lives, they deserve to have a say in it, no matter how they communicate… To achieve any true sense of freedom, autistic people need to take this power back.” And I would add—so do those with intellectual disabilities, developmental differences, and invisible needs.

Too often, we tell people with disabilities who they are allowed to be. Too often, we underestimate their capacity for self-understanding, autonomy, and love. But as any caregiver, advocate, or self-advocate will tell you: people with disabilities don’t need permission to be human. They already are.

Faith, Love and Belonging
As a woman of faith, I’ve been asked more than once: How do you support the LGBTQIA+ community? Isn’t that a contradiction?

No.  It isn’t. 

My answer is always simple and sincere: “Easy. Love is limitless.” 

For me, faith has never meant policing the borders of belonging. It’s never been about making people prove they’re worthy of care. It’s been about presence. About a God who sees and knows and still chooses to love.

So how could I not do the same? 

I don’t need someone to mirror my beliefs or background in order to stand beside them. My job isn’t to correct people into conformity—it’s to love people into flourishing.

And I believe that love must include everyone. The LGBTQIA+ community. The disability community. And especially those who live in both.

On Community: What Belonging Truly Means
Community isn’t built by erasing difference. It’s built by honoring it. When we place issues or ideologies over the living, breathing people right in front of us, we miss the entire point. We cannot say we care about freedom and then make conditions for who gets to experience it. We cannot wave the banner of inclusion and then silence those who speak in a different voice, live in a different body, or love in a different way.

Pride calls us to live beyond our comfort. To see each person—not in spite of their differences, but because of them. Because every difference reveals another facet of the human experience.

This reflection is written in partnership with The Arc of Indiana—an organization that has long stood in defense of the rights of people with intellectual and developmental disabilities. That defense includes the right to self-expression, self-identification, and self-love. It includes the right to be seen as full people, capable of love and worthy of it, too.

All We Share
So here is what I hope we carry into this month and beyond:
We may differ in identity. In ability. In belief. In background.
But we share so much more.
We share the desire to be known. To be welcomed.
To be loved.
To belong.

Let us choose the kind of community that listens with intention, celebrates without hesitation, and loves without condition.

Let us be the people who build longer tables instead of higher walls.

And let us remember—every day, not just in June—that love, in all its forms, is sacred.

Happy Pride. You are seen. You are enough. And you are not alone.