I was 13 when Instagram was officially launched, full of glitches and sepia tones. It became a space to document my day at school as if it were a private diary, uploading several posts a day documenting what I wore, what I had for dinner, and what was on TV that evening. The idea that people would even consider seeing what I was sharing felt foreign.
Fast forward 15 years, and social media now makes up a huge part of my life and career. Through social media, I discovered my digital community at a young age, opening up a world where I saw LGBTQIA+ people do more than just… exist. They weren’t just a storyline in Eastenders each year, but, instead, fully-fledged three-dimensional people with communities and lives that I, too, could have. My own glimpse into the future.
The thing is, the online world has undergone a profound shift. The once-vibrant, supportive space now feels unsustainable, a barren landscape filled with frustration for many in the LGBTQIA+ community. This change is driven by a number of factors, including rising anti-trans rhetoric, the tumultuous rebranding of Twitter to X under Elon Musk’s ownership, and a noticeable decline in support from corporate allies who once championed queer causes.
This comes after the UK Supreme Court ruled that transgender women should not be entitled to the same legal protection as cisgender women.
Around 2017/2018, the conversation around non-binary identity and the exploration of self through fashion and make-up was bubbling in a way that felt deeply positive. I was being celebrated for being non-binary and queer by household names, brands that I once could have only dreamed of working with, and charities and news websites all wanted to hear about my community's lived experience. I was 21 and, for the first time in my life, felt I was being celebrated for being me.
Now, that same space is unrecognisable. The content creator world feels less like a creative outlet and more like a political minefield. The pressure to step back from this world is immense, not because I want to, but because it feels like a necessary decision in a climate where people aren't afraid to express their animosity towards queer and trans people.
I always knew that corporate allyship and the “pink pound” wouldn't be a magic solution to changing attitudes. While beneficial for increasing visibility, they were never going to change the world on their own. Yet, even this small piece of the puzzle seems to have fallen away. The shift is palpable. Talking about being queer or trans outside of Pride Month seems discouraged. The executive order by President Trump to end “wasteful Government DEI programs” in the United States sent a ripple effect across the globe, validating organisations to roll back their inclusive efforts. Brands that once championed LGBTQIA+ causes are now ghosting collaborators, with some even stating that diversity and inclusion are not a priority. This isn't just about my personal career; it's a systemic problem that affects the entire community.
This year has been a stark reality check. For freelancers like me, it's become a weekly occurrence to have promising opportunities vanish without a trace. Brands would reach out, eager to show their support, only to ghost us after multiple meetings and creative sessions. This isn't a new phenomenon, but it's now more widespread and brazen. The irony is not lost on me: often, these opportunities started with a desire to "do the right thing," only for the brands to become the very problem they were trying to solve.
This isn't just a personal grievance; it's a movement to eliminate LGBTQIA+ inclusion. It affects everyone, regardless of their online visibility. My work as a writer and content creator is built on the premise that organisations want to openly discuss the experiences of queer people. When that support disappears, I'm left questioning my path. As trans people's existence is being challenged globally, our allies have gone silent, creating a void where transphobic narratives can flourish louder than ever before. This silence forces queer and trans people to pivot in their careers and, more importantly, leaves our community more vulnerable than ever.
I know I've been fortunate to have worked in this space for so long. It’s a job rooted in fun and frivolity, and creativity – but it’s one that ultimately feels too ‘political’ to be seen as creative anymore. My existence, our existence, is no longer neutral, and my desire to tell stories and provide a fun, light-hearted resource for other people to find comfort or joy in is depleted. The time has come for me to shift my focus. I am ready for a new challenge. I could bend to the current climate and become a more "palatable queer" to secure more work, but that's not who I am.
Instead of feeling like my online presence needs to tick boxes, each post orchestrated to achieve career progression, or even risk enmeshing my digital success and view of my professional self with my personal desirability, maybe (just maybe) I will be able to be in a place again where I can just fall in love with myself and my community online, rather than seeing it as a role I must filfill 24/7.
For Lesbian Visibility Week, Roxy Bourdillon reflects on her experience at a queer sex club.
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