A Pride Month Reflection on Identity, Legacy, and the Right to Be Fully Seen
Every June, rainbows stretch across storefronts and headlines, presenting a celebration to the world. People often believe that Pride is just a party for the LGBTQ+ community. But in truth, it’s so much more.
Pride is remembrance. A return to who we are and what it has taken to live that truth. It’s a way of saying: we’re still here, still loving, still fighting. It is also a time to honor those who fought for our rights—and who may have left us far too soon. Pride is a celebration, yes—but it’s also a tribute—a sacred act of memory and resistance.
As someone who belongs to this community and works in the field of end-of-life care, I feel the weight and the beauty of this month differently. Because I’ve come to understand that it’s not just about how we live—it’s also about how we die.
“And whether or not we’re allowed to die as ourselves. “
The People Who Show Up
I’ve experienced how essential a chosen family can be—especially for queer individuals, but not only. These are the people who show up when no one else does. The ones who love you unconditionally—and whom you love back.
Nearly eight years ago, I fell in love with the most beautiful and amazing woman, a part of my chosen family. Since then, we’ve built a life together, navigating both the joys and the challenges. We are a team, and we would do anything for each other.
Ironically, when we travel together, we’re not allowed to go through immigration as a couple. Because we are two women, we are not seen as a couple or a family. Meanwhile, our straight (and unmarried) friends are allowed to pass through as a family without question.
I know with certainty that when I die, the last face I want to see is hers. And my wishes—the presence of the one I love—should be respected and honored. At least in my ideal world.
The reality is far from that. I’ve heard stories—and witnessed moments—where partners were left out of medical decisions, or barred from hospital rooms. “Friends,” not legally recognized, were never notified until it was too late.
A while ago, I heard the story of Esther(1), who was denied the right to be with her wife, Cathy—her person of 33 years—as she passed. I can only begin to imagine the grief of losing the love of your life while being kept from her side in her final moments.
And I know she’s not alone.
Carriers of Legacy
There’s a grief that runs deeper in our community—an ache for the lives that were never allowed to fully unfold. For the ones who didn’t make it to old age. And for those who did, but whose stories remain quiet and unwitnessed. Many queer elders have lived their entire lives on the margins. They carry within them stories of love that were hidden, identities that were threatened, and connections built in the shadows. Their survival is not just personal—it’s historical.
To be an elder in the LGBT+ community is to be a living archive. A keeper of truths the world tried to erase.
I want to name one of them who made an impact on my life: Shatzi Weisberger(2), lovingly known as the “People’s Death Doula.” Shatzi was a nurse, an activist, a radical elder, and a fiercely out queer woman. She spent her life standing for justice, and in her final season, she did something bold and unique: she invited the world to witness her dying.
She hosted a "death party" where people gathered to celebrate her life and prepare for her passing. She planned her dying as intentionally as someone might plan a wedding: with beauty, ceremony, community, and love. She didn’t mask her fear—but she didn’t hide her truth either. She let the sacredness of death be seen. And in doing so, she gave the rest of us permission to imagine something more for ourselves.
Some may have called her eccentric. I call her brave. Shatzi was unapologetically herself—until the end.
That is the kind of legacy I want to honor. Not because it was perfect, but because it was true. Because it was fully hers. That is the kind of life—and death—I hope we all get to have: one that reflects the wholeness of who we are, and the love we dared to live.
Dying Without Disguise
The sad truth is that many LGBT+ people are still afraid of what it means to die—not just in a medical setting, but within families or systems that refuse to see them. They fear being misgendered, misunderstood, or dismissed in their most vulnerable moments. They fear their last wishes being ignored, their identity erased, and their grief made invisible.
These fears are not imagined. They are lived realities, echoed throughout Latin America, where I am from.
In El Salvador, recent actions by the government have deepened these fears. In 2024, all official health guidelines regarding sexual diversity were ordered to be removed from public clinics. These guidelines, originally designed to ensure respectful and informed care for LGBTQ+ people, have been in place since 2016. Their removal sent a chilling message: your existence does not belong here. (3)
What happens when these same systems are in charge of your death?
Affirming care is not a luxury. It is a human right. Every person—regardless of sexual preference and identity—deserves to be seen, heard, and held with dignity at the end of their life
A Second Death
When I started thinking about this blog, I asked the opinion of a local LGBTQ+ activist and friend, Fatima. I was struck by her response. It made me realize that my fears, longings, and hopes are not just mine. They are shared. They are alive. They are real.
Here I share with you what she told me (originally written in Spanish)
“Pride is also in death: the right to be who we are until the very end.
During Pride Month, we celebrate with joy, with strength, with remembrance. But it’s also a time to acknowledge the silent battles we still carry—even in death. For many LGBTQ+ people, the end of life may come not only with grief, but with the fear of being erased, softened, or reinterpreted by family members who never fully accepted who we were. I’ve seen up close how painful that is.
A dear friend of mine—with her alternative style, tattoos, colorful hair, piercings, and dark clothing—was dressed by her family for her funeral as ‘the girl they wanted to remember,’ not as the brave, authentic woman she truly was.It was a kind of second death: the death of her identity.
In times of grief, families must remember that the true act of love is not to remake the person who died in their image—but to honor them completely: without censorship, without correction.Pride is that too—being recognized, respected, and celebrated exactly as we were, until the very last breath.”
Fatima’s words speak for so many. They speak for me.
What I Hope For
When I imagine the kind of care our community deserves, I see this:
A quiet room filled with people who know us. Hands held without question. Names are spoken with respect. Identity is honored and never debated. No need to explain who we are. No fear of being reduced or rewritten. Just the comfort of being known.
That is the kind of care I want to help create. That is one of the two main reasons I’m writing this blog: to give voice to what so many before me could not.
My second reason is to continue tearing down the structures that kept me from being my full self for far too long—so my family, my friends, and the next generation can be FREE! Free to be, to love, to live, and to die as their unique selves.
This Pride, I hope we all continue to build spaces—at every stage of life—where no one has to disappear to be loved. That includes the final threshold. That includes the sacred moment of physically departing this world.
Because we deserve that too.
• Esther and Cathy, Shatzi, and Fatima’s friend, I honor you. •
Further Reading & Resources
- Esther's Story – Minute 06:09 - 07:09
- Shatzi Weisberger – The People’s Death Doula
- Gender Diversity in El Salvador
- Marie Curie Report on LGBTQ+ End-of-Life Care
