Sophia Bush: What Celebrating Pride Means to Me This Year
Bush (right) and Ashlyn Harris pictured in May 2025 in Telluride, Colo. Credit - Rey Joaquin
Pride Month tends to arrive in a confetti burst of color. Parades bring music, energy, and acceptance to the streets. But in 2025, things feel different. What a surreal time to be celebrating Pride.
On a personal note, stepping publicly into my queerness has felt like freedom. I've never felt more at home in myself. Falling so unexpectedly in love with the woman I now call my partner has felt like magic. Like rock becoming water, toughness and difficulty have shifted into flow, and now things move with ease. Like so many women I know who have been through their own seismic transitions, I find myself done trying to model the fairytales I was raised on. Done trying to mold myself into a version of what I saw on TV—of what I often played on TV. There is such a delicious, primal feeling that comes when you stop contorting yourself to fit outside expectations and start listening to your own voice. Getting here, to this kind of happy—the kind joy I've simultaneously found in my partner and also in myself—took exploring versions of myself for four decades. So if you're still searching, keep it up. It's not too late.
Shortly after my relationship became public, my mother called to tell me she was 'shocked' to discover some of her friends were 'more conservative' than she expected. I had to remind her that as a white woman in her late 70s, it's not surprising she has some friends who quietly hold exclusionary views. She was so bothered by one particular conversation. A 'friend' had called her and said, 'Well! This can't be true. I mean, your daughter isn't gay.'
My mom said she could feel the nastiness in the way the woman emphasized the word. And without missing a beat, she told me, 'You know what I said?! I said, 'Oh honey, I think she's pretty gay. And she's happy.'
One thing I've observed again and again since sharing my story of finding love with a woman: to some people, queer happiness will always be seen as a threat. I will never understand why. In a world already overflowing with pain and uncertainty, why would anyone try to deny more love? More joy?
For all the happiness and gratification that has come with my love story, I also struggle with the incongruity of it all: the safety and peace we have built inside our home, and the whiplash of walking out into a world where that safety and ease are not guaranteed for everyone in our community, because LGBTQ+ rights are under attack. This is what's on my mind during Pride Month in 2025.
Members of the right wing are working hard to roll back civil rights protections, trying to undo marriage equality, dismantle anti-discrimination laws, and strip away access to life-saving health care (it's unbelievable to me that I have to type that sentence). The Trump administration is shutting down the crisis hotline that helps save the lives of LGBTQ+ youth. The so-called 'party of family values' turns a blind eye to the fact that 40% of all homeless youth in America are unhoused because they have been kicked out of their homes for being gay, or lesbian, or trans, or bisexual, or queer.
I can't imagine loving a child only under certain conditions. Loving them only if they become who you want them to be, instead of who they are. I recognize the privilege I grew up with, thanks to my parents—parents who had a large, gorgeous, artistic community filled with gay friends. Parents who took me to Pride parades in Los Angeles all my life. Parents who love my partner. A mom who texts me reflections on our relationship every time we have dinner, most recently: 'My heart is so full seeing the joy, love and comfort you bring to each other. It's so heartwarming and so natural to you both. I love you both very much.' What my parents want, and what every parent should want, is a happy kid. Plain and simple.
But for so many in the LGBTQ+ community today, the violence begins at home and only expands out in the world. Queer love has always been an act of resistance, and maybe that's something people have forgotten—public education in the U.S. is being gutted, after all. Books that reflect our love are being banned. This administration is going after inclusion like it's the ultimate threat. They are trying to limit words that give people language for who they are, as if through erasing the language, they can erase the people. But this kind of harm doesn't stop at queer folks. It hurts everyone. Gay. Straight. Women. Men. Our trans friends. Your children. Everyone and anyone who has ever been on the outside of the ruling class. Because the truth is our freedoms are all connected: if some of us lose our rights, it means the rest are vulnerable too.
I am celebrating Pride Month this year, wholeheartedly and with all the love I carry for my identity and for this community—but I also want to remember how hard won these traditions really are. We can't take LGBTQ+ history for granted. Pride started as a protest. Being 'out' was an open act of defiance in the face of police brutality and subjugation. Without Marsha P. Johnson and the activists of the 1960s and 1970s, we would have no Pride Month. We would have no rights. The freedoms we have today cost people their safety, their homes, their blood, sweat, and tears. People were beaten at Stonewall just for refusing to hide.
So I appreciate the shirts and bumper stickers and the rainbow confetti and what they communicate—and I love waving the flag with a huge smile on my face. But it can't stop there. Symbols are a start, not the solution. We can't just wear our signals of safety in public, we also have to do the work in private. Wear the t-shirt and call your Congressional representatives. Call them once a week. Demand that they stand up for equal rights protections. Remind them that your values are intersectional and our liberty is bound together. Give what you can. Donate, or better yet, volunteer your time.
I know we are all tired and experiencing burnout. We've been through so much—grief, division, political chaos. This moment feels heavy. My suggestion is to seek out the light. Be in community. Commit to showing up. Don't just protect queer people; make space for our joy. Hold the line and show the world that we are not going backwards. I promise you this—it will be some of the most joyful, life-affirming activism you'll ever be a part of. We all need to be clear which side of history we want to be on. I choose the side that loves love. I hope you'll join us. It's nice over here. Plus, we've got good snacks—and even better playlists.
Contact us at letters@time.com.
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