Pride, Quietly

Every year when June rolls around, something strange happens. It’s not glitter or parades or bold declarations that come to mind — it’s silence.

Not everyone’s Pride looks the same. Some of us celebrate it not with flags or loud music, but by holding our ground. Still here. Still ourselves. Still walking through the world in a way that might not make sense to the people we came from.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about names. The ones we choose. The ones we’re given. The ones that never get said.

People who know me casually might call me Alex Burton. Some know me by my full name, Alexander Paul Burton. Some don’t use either anymore. That’s alright.

But there’s a strange kind of resistance that comes when you carve a path that wasn’t expected of you — especially if that path winds through art, music, books, or anything openly queer. Especially when it’s done from a place that doesn’t always welcome difference.

Some people celebrate Pride with their families.
Some of us don’t get that version.

Some of us go years without hearing a name we still answer to.

Some of us get asked, “Are you related to…?”

And in those moments, a quiet reckoning happens behind someone’s eyes — of memory, shame, pride, maybe even regret. It’s complicated.

This Pride, I don’t have anything big to declare.
Just that I’m still writing.
Still making things.
Still believing that small stories matter — even if they aren’t shared around the dinner table.

If you’ve found this post because you googled “Alex Burton” and ended up here — that’s me, in a way.
If you’re looking for someone who’s trying, quietly, to stay visible even when it’s easier to disappear — maybe that’s you too.

— Alexander Paul Burton / Alex Burton