When Humility Gets Loud

Fists Up, Glitter On

We’re halfway through a year of exploring humility, and lately, I’ve found myself revisiting the way I’ve talked about it. In January, I said humility was about curiosity and reflection. In February, we turned toward justice—listening over leading, supporting instead of saving, stepping back so someone else could step forward. I’ve talked about humility as stillness. As soft strength. As the quiet courage to admit, “I don’t have all the answers, but I’m willing to learn.”

That all still feels true--and incomplete.

Because what if humility isn’t always quiet? What if it’s not about shrinking or softening or getting small?

What if humility—the real kind—is actually about truth-telling? Even when it’s loud. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it disrupts the story people would rather hear.

This weekend is Cincinnati Pride. Thousands of people will gather downtown in all their colors and glitter and joy. There will be music, dancing, hugs, stickers, free tote bags. And for many people, it will feel like a party—and that’s good. Celebration matters. Joy is resistance.

But we can’t talk about Pride without talking about where it started.

Pride began in 1969, at a bar called the Stonewall Inn in New York City. It was one of the few places where queer people—especially drag queens, trans women, and homeless youth—could gather in public. But police raids were common. Queer spaces weren’t safe. That summer, after yet another raid, the people inside fought back. They threw bricks. They shouted. They refused to go quietly. The protests lasted for several nights, and what started as a spontaneous uprising became the spark that ignited the modern LGBTQ+ rights movement.

The first Pride was not a parade. It was a riot. It wasn’t sponsored or permitted or polite. It was raw and angry and real. It was people saying: This is who we are. We deserve to exist. We will not be erased.

And that, to me, is humility.

Not the kind we’re often taught. Not the kind that sits quietly with folded hands. But a kind that is deeply honest. A kind that says, I’m still becoming—and I deserve to become in peace.

I went to Cincinnati Pride a few years ago. It was the year I came out. I bought a VIP ticket and got there early, eager to experience it all. I stood in the sun to watch the parade, quickly realizing how brutal a late June day can be. I wandered through the booths, saw just one angry street preacher, and eventually ducked into the VIP tent for what I hoped would be air conditioning. It wasn’t working. It was hotter inside than it was outside. I didn’t stay long but I did feel a sort of victory–I finally celebrated my identity as a gay man.

I’ve thought about going this Saturday again. I want to. But I’m also hesitant—not just because of the heat, but because of the moment we’re living in.

There’s a tension right now, a cultural crisis that’s hard to ignore. Rights are being taken away—quietly in some places, violently in others. Black and Brown communities, queer and trans people, educators, librarians, anyone who doesn’t conform to the current majority—so many are under attack. Book bans. Anti-LGBTQ+ legislation. Surveillance. Erasure. The demonization of difference. It’s frightening.

In the face of that, I worry that some of us—especially those of us with a little safety or privilege—have mistaken humility for timidity. We’ve confused being gracious with being silent. We’ve stepped back when we maybe should have stepped forward. We’ve tried to be the “good kind” of whatever we are—polite enough to stay in the room, quiet enough not to make waves. And I think that’s precisely what those who strive to shrink or erase us wants us to do.

But the origin of Pride tells me that humility doesn’t mean disappearing. It doesn’t mean being palatable or easy to digest. Sometimes, humility is showing up anyway. Even when your voice shakes. Even when you’re afraid. Even when you know people won’t understand you.

Sometimes, humility means telling the truth: This is who I am and you don’t have to like it but you have to respect it.

And right now, in this season, that truth matters more than ever.

I still believe in humility. Deeply. But I’m learning that humility can be fierce. That it can look like protest. That it can sound like anger. That it doesn’t have to mean playing small.

If anything, the most humble thing we can do is to be honest about who we are—and let others be honest, too. Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s loud. Even when it makes the people in charge uncomfortable.

I’m not sure yet if I’ll go to Pride this weekend. I want to celebrate. I want to belong. But I also want to feel safe. I want to cheer and dance and be part of the crowd without having to scan it for danger. Maybe you’ve felt that tension, too—the pull between joy and risk, between visibility and vulnerability.

But even if I don’t show up in the streets this year, I will still show up in the truth. I will keep rejecting the lie that humility means silence. I will keep naming what’s sacred, even if it’s not safe. And I will keep telling the truth about who I am—because that, I believe, is the most humble thing I can do.

Pride doesn’t exist in spite of humility. It’s built on it. Not the kind that folds its hands and waits to be accepted, but the kind that stands in defiance and says, “This is me. I won’t disappear to make you comfortable.”

That’s not arrogance. That’s not ego. That’s humility—with its fists up and its glitter on.

Read more at ayearofhumility.net.