I’m suffering, badly, from the recent law change and the EHRC guidance around single‑sex spaces. Whatever the technicalities, the mood music is unmistakable: trans people are outsiders again. Freakish. A social pest at best. A threat at worst.

And it’s spun me out. Properly spun me. So much so that the slow inching I’d been doing — that fragile sense of moving in the right direction — has started to slip through my fingers.

We moved recently, not far from a place with a so‑called “pink quarter.” A gay quarter. A place that, in theory, should feel like a refuge. My partner — bless her, she meant well — suggested we go to this year’s Pride celebration. She’s cis, and she thought it might give me a little hope, a little air, a little freedom.

I was touched. Her heart was absolutely in the right place. But I said no.

She asked why. “It’s a celebration of LGBTQ+ lives,” she said.

“Is it?” I replied. “Or is it a load of bollocks?”

She looked genuinely confused. “What’s wrong with Pride? What’s wrong with celebrating diversity?”

“Nothing,” I said. “But it’s about why Pride started, who fronted it, what was lost, and what it’s become. If it were TLGB+ — in that order — it might feel closer to the truth.”

She said she didn’t understand me.

So I started at the beginning. “I’m not gay,” I said. “I’m straight. No matter how you frame it, I’m AMAB and attracted to women. My transition has nothing to do with sexuality.”

And then: “Don’t you think that in today’s society, where people can be whatever sexuality they like and still have normal jobs, normal lives, normal opportunities — that who you sleep with is largely irrelevant? Ever since homosexuality was decriminalised, and especially since same‑sex marriage became legal, hasn’t the playing field levelled? At least compared to what trans people face now?”

Then I turned to history. “Who fronted the Stonewall riots? Who stood on the doors of gay clubs? The queens. Trans people first, gay second. But the gay community — and their wealthy benefactors — folded us into their acronym like a decorative flourish. The T was tacked on the end to make it look inclusive. Look at the US: the T has been quietly removed from the Stonewall memorial website. That’s not an accident. That’s a policy shift.”

And then the big one: “What is Gay Pride really about now? Because from where I stand, it looks like a fundraiser where straight people — and straight corporations — come to ogle the spectacle. Snap photos. Wash their social media feeds with rainbow‑tinted virtue.

Where are the support groups for adults struggling with being trans? Where is the march to change the law? Where is the pressure on the EHRC?

And where will all those people be the next day? Back at their jobs, their lives, their screens — not one of them worrying about where they can take a piss with safety and dignity.”

I paused, then asked her one last thing. “Where do most trans people end up once they transition?”

She said, “They almost all leave the LGBT scene and live a normal life.”

“Exactly,” I said. “So why would I want to attend Pride when all I’ve ever wanted is to be a normal straight person? I never wanted to be trans. I wanted to be a vanilla man with a vanilla life, someone who’d never go near a gay bar, a Pride parade, or a rainbow flag — not out of prejudice, but because I genuinely love vanilla. In ice cream and in life.”

I’m exhausted from fighting every day just to be a person who blends in. Not a figurehead. Not a guru. Not a wise old bird. Just someone who shops at Asda and enjoys a pint at night.

I never wanted a war. I never started one. I just wanted to be well, and to have a fair shot at something I once believed existed — equality.

Now I know the dice are loaded. And I have no Pride.

To close, I return to something my partner said years ago — one of the rare times I left the house presenting as the woman I had grown into. These days I’m too scared, too anxious, stuck in androgyny, terrified of toilets.

But back then, we went to the supermarket. Two women, walking across the car park. A few days earlier we’d done the same thing, but I’d been dressed more neutrally. This time I was in a dress and wig. I reached for her hand — we hold hands a lot — and she shook me off.

I whispered, “Why?” She whispered, “I don’t want to draw attention. It’s weird, two women holding hands in public.”

“Oh,” I said.

And yet she was happy to suggest Pride this year.

I’ll leave this with you. It’s only my take on life. Maybe someone will point out where I’ve gone wrong.

But this is how it feels from where I stand.