Breaking Through: Pride, Community, and the Bonds That Unite Us

This is the story of how one woman’s quiet strength helped me find my voice.

📸 Donna — our Pride Mother — at Burning Man, riding a fur-covered dead camel bike with joy and defiance. Paired with a graphic that honors her title and the spirit of chosen family (created in Canva Pro by author).

My Pride Mother, Donna, sent me a meme the other day — a sculpture of an elderly woman’s face cracking open to reveal the wide-eyed innocence of a child within. The caption spoke of transformation through brokenness, of how being torn apart can be the beginning of being remade.

She didn’t add a message — she didn’t need to.

This is the language we’ve learned to speak: symbols, glances, timing. The meme didn’t just say “I’m thinking of you.” It said, “I’m still here.”

Donna is more than my Pride Mother. She’s the godmother to my husband’s youngest sister, a Girl Scout leader in their childhood years, a campfire song kind of soul with practical wisdom and a cackling laugh that probably helped raise half the kids in their neighborhood.

For much of their lives, she was just there — best friend to my late mother-in-law, showing up at Thanksgiving dinners, and quietly stepping into the roles no one formally assigned.