They say with age comes wisdom. When I was much younger, I laughed at that idea. I was convinced I already possessed all the wisdom I’d ever need. Now, with time behind me, lots of it, I laugh for a very different reason, and at how little I truly understood back then. One of the gifts of getting older is perspective. You begin to recognize that while the trials you’re facing may feel overwhelming in the moment, chances are you’ve survived something harder before. Not always, but often enough to matter. I was reminded of that recently while talking with a young gay friend who described 2025 as a devastating year for our community. He used an expletive too. And he wasn’t wrong. It was an abominable year. Related: Far-right, anti-LGBTQ+ Project 2025 will continue into 2026 In 2025, LGBTQ+ people watched hard-won progress unravel in real time. Diversity, equity, and inclusion programs were dismantled with startling speed, often under the false banner of “fairness.” Queer people, particularly trans Americans, were targeted in the military and elsewhere, once again treated as liabilities rather than patriots. LGBTQ+ history was scrubbed from government websites, our contributions quietly erased from history as if they were inconveniences rather than facts. Trans people and trans youth bore the brunt of it. Health care bans expanded. School policies treated their existence as controversial. Legislators spoke about them not as children, neighbors, family members, or human beings, but as an issue, a problem to be solved, fears to be exploited, and unfamiliarity as danger. Pride itself was under extreme duress. Funding for Pride marches and LGBTQ+ initiatives disappeared. Rainbow crosswalks , the very symbols of visibility and belonging, were painted over, wiped off streets as though our presence had been a temporary mistake. Meanwhile, hate crimes continued to rise , fueled by rhetoric that painted queer people as threats simply for existing. For many of us, it felt like we had come so far, only to be yanked backward. I reached a point later in life where I finally felt fully comfortable being an out and proud gay man. And I still am. I remain grateful for who I am. But I would be lying if I said there isn’t now an added layer of trepidation. It's especially prevalent when meeting someone new, someone you don’t yet know. There’s a quiet calculation that happens. A guard that goes up. A question you haven’t asked yourself in years: Are they safe? I haven’t asked myself that in a long time. That question didn’t come out of nowhere. It came from watching a more vocal crowd grow bolder, convinced that because Donald Trump and his allies attack us openly, they are somehow licensed to do the same. Writing for The Advocate has exposed me to that reality in ways I didn’t anticipate. My columns are picked up by aggregators and spread far beyond our community, and with that exposure has come some truly hateful language. Accusations, slurs, and venom masquerading as someone’s useless opinion. It’s unnerving and demeaning. And yet, in this era, some people treat it as acceptable, even justified, because queer people are still viewed as different, and therefore disposable. I’ve felt it not just online but in my personal life too. But you know what? They can go eff themselves. I’m not going to stay quiet. None of us should. In fact, vitriol only encourages digging in deeper. That’s where wisdom asserts itself. I know we have endured worse. Maybe you have too. And for some of us, it was much worse. It’s been said repeatedly, but it bears reiteration. Always. During the AIDS crisis , it was so much worse that words still struggle to do it justice. It felt insurmountable. Life itself seemed fleeting, hope dimmed to a dangerous shadow, and your sense of self could collapse into something devastatingly close to worthlessness. Fear feels too tame a word for that time. Because just being “fearful” seemed too simplistic. Related: 1987 looms as a year of fear, fortitude, and firsts for the AIDS Quilt, Nancy Pelosi, and me There were no out celebrities filling magazine covers, no likable LGBTQ+ characters populating television and film, no openly queer coworkers chatting freely at the office. Or Pride flags on desks, on the doors of businesses, or outside dimly lit gay bars. They were horribly lonely years when it felt like you were utterly alone in a world that condemned you for being out of the ordinary. And worse, assume you carried a lethal disease simply by existing. And you were going to infect them. Some people didn’t hug you. Many more wouldn’t kiss you. Being loved felt like a luxury. What saved us then wasn’t comfort or acceptance. It was each other. We banded together. We fought. We demanded to be seen, to be treated, to be valued. Our resolve hardened into resilience, and that is exactly what is happening again. The pendulum of hate and exclusion is swinging sharply to the right, almost violently. But 2026 is our opportunity to slow it down. Related : What does 2026 have in store for queer folks? Here’s what's written in the stars We have battles ahead. We have doubts. And we will once again be weaponized as cultural wedge issues in the upcoming midterms. Our lives, our families, our health care will be debated by people who know little about us and care even less. Yet every political leader I spoke with over the past year, including U.S. Sens. Elizabeth Warren and Chris Murphy, U.S. Reps. Ro Khanna , Jamie Raskin, and Maxwell Frost , and more, expressed the same belief: that the American people do not ultimately tolerate hate and cruelty. I want to believe they are right. More than that, we need to believe they are right. Related: Gen Z Candidate Maxwell Frost: 'Partner' to LGBTQ+ Community When queer people are used as political bait, voters must recognize the cruelty for what it is and turn away from it. At the same time, 2026 gives us something too. We have the opportunity to be louder, prouder, and more visible than ever before. Visibility has always been our biggest advantage. Our best attribute. And I have no doubt we will pull through, just as we always have, and in doing so, stop that pendulum from swinging any further. Our only real recourse is resilience. Supporting one another. Refusing to shrink. Being ferociously, unapologetically proud. We have more allies, more recognition, and more love than at any other point in our history. That matters. We must remember it, especially when fear tries to convince us otherwise. We are not alone. Not even close. It won’t be easy. There’s no use sugarcoating that. The far right and Christian extremists will do what they have always done, and that is attack us vehemently. But I would argue we are more prepared than we’ve ever been. We’ve gained a hell of a lot of wisdom over the years, particularly last year. And wisdom, when paired with community, is so, so powerful. Someday, those much younger than me will look back on this moment with wisdom of their own. They’ll tell the generations behind them that yes, there was a time when things weren’t good. When fear was loud and hate felt ascendant. But we survived. We always do.