A parade. A month of rainbow flags and abundant queerness. And then—just like that—it’s over.
I always find myself reflecting on this notion of Pride, of being proud. And every year, there’s the usual chorus of critics who say Pride is too much. That a month of rainbows and visibility is somehow being shoved down people’s throats.
To those critics: you will never understand.
I wish they could live in our shoes for just a moment. To know what it’s like growing up feeling different, outside the expected ideals of white heteronormativity. To know that no matter how hard you try, you’ll never quite fit that mold. So instead, you pour yourself into other parts of your life—into academic achievements, into hobbies, into anything that lets you feel normal, recognized, or valued.
The opposite of Pride is shame.
When people say there’s no need for Pride, knowingly or not, they’re advocating for shame. For too long, our community has been forced to hide who we are. Conditioned to believe we should fit in, remain silent, or be cast out. Conditioned to feel shame simply for being who we are. To believe that being gay—or trans, or bi, or anything else outside the “norm”—is somehow wrong. To be discriminated against. To feel less than.
I wish those critics could feel a lifetime of that burden, even for a single day.
Since 2017, I’ve led the corgis in the San Francisco Pride Parade. Every year, I feel the pressure to grow the contingent, make it better, sign up more corgis. I watch the signups anxiously, hoping this year’s presence will be bigger than the year before. In the weeks leading up to the event, people ask, “How many corgis do we have signed up so far?”—implying, to some extent, that more is better.
This year, we had fewer signups. Fewer corgis. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t sting. Part of me wondered if it was a reflection on my shortcomings. Did I do something wrong? Did I offend someone last year? Was it because the registration fee increased by $2? Was the political bent in our messaging a turnoff?
My mind spirals into self-criticism—the same voice that’s haunted me since I was a teenager, telling me I’m not enough. That people will think I’m just doing this for the money. That I’m somehow failing.
But Pride was never about numbers. Or money, for that matter. For anyone who wonders: organizing this event is never about turning a profit. Honestly, I have yet to do even that. The registration fees typically just reduce what it costs me out of pocket. Whatever that amount ends up being is my contribution to this city, to the participants, and to the spectators, in sharing the joy that our corgis bring to us day in and day out.
I do this for people like Janet and Paige, who come up to me every year and tell me how much they look forward to marching in the parade. For Laura, one of the OGs who drives up from the South Bay and has marched with her corgis every single year we’ve done this. For the folks I see year after year (whose names, admittedly, I should probably know by now) who genuinely thank me for putting this together.
Pride with the corgis is about creating a ripple of joy so big that it becomes resistance. It’s about living this year’s motto: Find joy, bring corgis, and resist with Pride.
My favorite moment is always the same. After waiting what feels like forever, we finally start moving. We turn the corner onto Market Street—and the crowd sees the corgis.
And they lose. their. minds.
That is why we do this.
But this year, Pride carried a heavier weight. Several major sponsors—Comcast, Anheuser‑Busch, Meta, and others—pulled out of SF Pride. They blamed “budgets,” which they consciously chose to reduce in response to rising anti-DEI sentiments and political pressure. But we know it runs deeper. In this political climate, where queer and trans people are under relentless attack, some corporations have decided it’s safer to stay quiet than to stand beside us.
Shame on them.
Pride was never about corporations. It began as a protest—a refusal to accept shame. If those companies think Pride has become “too political,” then they never understood what they were sponsoring in the first place.
Yes, losing their funding hurts. But it also reminds us: Pride belongs to us. To the people on the streets, waving signs, carrying corgis, wearing glitter. To those who show up, even when it’s hard, even when it’s scary.
To anyone who says Pride is too much—I’d argue it’s not nearly enough. Not until every single one of us can live out loud, without fear, and without shame.
The parade may be over. Pride Month will fade. The rainbow flags will get packed away in store windows until next year. But our Pride doesn’t end here. We carry it forward—in how we live, how we love, how we show up for each other.
And if that means turning Market Street into a sea of corgi butts and rainbows every June—then yes. That’s how we find joy, bring corgis, and resist with Pride.
So mark your calendars. We’ll be back on the streets Sunday, June 28, 2026. You (and your corg) are officially invited. Let’s let them know that we’re not going anywhere, we’re still here and will bring the joy next year.