Birthdays hit differently when you’re queer. Especially when you’re older. When the calendar flips and you realize the kids at the club weren’t even born when you first popped an E and danced to Frankie Knuckles under a strobe light the size of your ego.
Friday, July 18th. My birthday. Another notch on the belt, another candle, another chance to look around and ask, “What the fuck am I doing here?”
And I mean that in the best possible way.
I’ve been around. Seen some shit. Spent years deep in the beats and sweat of queer nightlife — where the walls vibrate with bass and sex and trauma and triumph. I don’t the leather title holder thing, and continue to support those in sash as much as humanly possible. And have built a chosen family of ride-or-dies that if asked to bring a sholve, I would do it instantly and generally only care about who was driving, and if we could get ROFO chicken afterwards.
You survive long enough in that kind of space, and birthdays become less about cake and more about counting who’s still standing beside you.
Getting Older When You Were Never Supposed To
There’s a strange thing that happens when you make it past the age the world assumed you wouldn’t. A kind of survivor’s guilt mixed with a fierce, middle-finger pride. They didn’t expect us to live this long. The Reagan years tried. The churches tried. Our own damn government tried. But here we are.
Still queer!
Still loud!
Still dancing!
Getting older in the queer community is a fucking act of rebellion. Because we weren’t supposed to age. We were supposed to disappear. And yet we remain — seasoned, scarred, wise, ever the fablous and more powerful than we’ve ever been.
And if you’re lucky, like I’ve been, you get to a point where people start looking to you for something more than just a party. They look to you for guidance, for stability, for proof that queer joy doesn’t have an expiration date.
And it doesn’t. You live long enough you find your groove.
Being the Elder Isn’t Glamorous
Let’s kill the fantasy — being an elder in the queer community isn’t some glamorous sage-on-a-mountain gig. There’s no crown. No applause. Most of the time, it’s just you, holding space for people who don’t even realize how much they need it.
It’s not parades and TED Talks. It’s talking someone down off a ledge at 3AM. It’s watching a kid make the same dumbass mistake you did and biting your tongue just enough to let them learn. It’s calling out bad behavior from someone you love because accountability matters more than comfort.
I’ve fucked up — more times than I can count. Burned bridges. Ghosted people. Stayed silent when I should’ve raised hell. But I’ve also learned. How to own my shit. How to fix what I can. How to sit with pain, mine and someone else’s, without flinching.
Now I try to show up. Not as a hero. Not as a savior. Just as someone who’s been through the fire, lived to tell the tale, and isn’t afraid to walk back into the flames with someone else.
That’s what being an elder means to me.
Not being above — but being with.
It’s Not Just a Party — It’s a Pulse
I’m not gonna lie. I’ll be celebrating. Loudly. I’ll be at the club, in the dark, surrounded by bass and bodies and the kind of sweat you only get when freedom meets rhythm. But it’s not just about a party.
It’s about presence.
Being here. Still here. Still pushing. Still making space.
For every trans kid who just got kicked out. For every black or brown queer who’s still being erased. For every elder who paved the way and never got their flowers.
I celebrate for them.
And I celebrate for me.
Because fuck it — we earned this.
Queers Don’t Just Age. We Evolve!
So yeah, I’m older. A little grayer, a little slower to recover from a night out, but sharper than I’ve ever been. Less interested in bullshit. More invested in legacy.
Not the kind of legacy with buildings and plaques, but one made of people. Of connections. Of showing the next wave of queers that they don’t have to burn out to matter.
That you can survive. You can thrive. You can grow into something fierce.
So happy fucking birthday to me.
And to every queer out there getting older — don’t mourn it.
Own it.
