Every June, I find myself standing in the same place. Not in the crowd. Not waving a rainbow flag. Not chanting with hundreds of voices echoing through the streets of Baguio City.

Instead, I stand on an overpass.

Below me, the Pride March moves like a river of color. There are people in bright outfits, friends laughing together, couples holding hands without hesitation, and strangers dancing as if the world has finally given them permission to exist. The music and shouts reaches where I am standing, carried by the wind and drowned occasionally by passing jeepneys.

And years ago, without fail, I whisper the same question to myself: "Will there ever come a day when I can walk among them?" The funny thing about hiding in fear is that people assume you are hiding from everyone else but sometimes, you're hiding from yourself too.

Years ago, I convinced myself that watching from a distance was enough. I would tell myself that I was there, technically. I saw the march, I supported it, and I celebrated in my own way. But deep down, I knew I wasn't just standing on an overpass.

I was standing at the edge of fear.

Fear of disappointing people. Fear of being judged. Fear of becoming a different version of myself in the eyes of those who have only known one version of me. And I know I'm not alone. That is why whenever people question, "Why do we still celebrate Pride?" I always think of people like us– the ones standing at the sidelines. The ones who stay quiet during conversations. The ones who carefully edit their stories before telling them. The ones who laugh at jokes that secretly hurt. The ones who support every Pride post online but hesitate before sharing one themselves.

People often say that times have changed. And they're right. In many ways, they have. We see more representation today than before. More people are speaking up. More stories are being told. More families are learning to understand. Progress has happened, and it deserves to be celebrated. But if equality were already complete, why are so many still afraid to be seen? Why do some still rehearse coming-out conversations in their heads for years? Why do many still wonder whether honesty will cost them friendships, opportunities, or acceptance? Why are there still people watching from overpasses instead of marching freely below?

For many, Pride is a celebration. For others, Pride is a reminder, a reminder that there is a community waiting for them when they are ready, that there are people who have survived the fears they are currently carrying, a gentle reminder that they are not strange, broken, or alone.

When I watch the parade pass beneath me, I don't just see people celebrating who they are. I see possibilities, I see versions of myself that are no longer afraid, I see futures where hiding is no longer necessary, and I see hope wearing every color of the rainbow.

Maybe that's what Pride has always been about. Not just visibility for those who are already seen, but reassurance for those who are still searching for the courage to step into the light. Because Pride is more than a parade. More than a flag. More than a month marked on a calendar.

It is a message. It says, "We're here." And for someone standing quietly on an overpass, wondering if they will ever belong, those two words can mean everything. So yes, Pride still matters today. Maybe more than ever.

Because somewhere in every city, there is still someone watching from a distance. Someone who is not ready, Someone who is not safe, Someone who is still figuring things out, Someone who sees the colors below and whispers the same question I do every year, "Will there ever come a day when I can walk among them?"

And perhaps the reason Pride continues to exist is simple, So that when that day comes, they'll know exactly where to go.

The Frontman