San Francisco Pride 2025: Joy, in Spite of it All
This year, I only made it to one day of Pride. And even that felt like a feat.
The official theme this year was Queer Joy is Resistance, which felt more like a quiet truth than a slogan. What’s usually a sprawling, multi-day celebration packed with events and obligations was condensed into a single Sunday. It wasn’t for lack of invitations or interest. I was just tired. Tired in the way that creeps into your bones after too much news, too many deadlines, too many notifications in a world that never slows down. When headlines arrive by the hour, and time seems to keep speeding up, simply getting out the door takes effort. Showing up with presence and joy takes even more.
Still, I made it.
The weather helped. The last weekend of June usually marks the start of real summer in San Francisco, at least east of Masonic. I left my car near my dog’s daycare in SoMa, caught the 49 bus up Van Ness, and arrived at Civic Center just as the parade was winding down. The familiar stretch between City Hall and the War Memorial Opera House had started to fill with marchers, families, and friends ready to settle in for the day’s second act.
The main stage opened with an acoustic set from trans folk-punk singer-songwriter Ryan Cassata. Performing solo with a harmonica around his neck, he delivered three songs that packed plenty of punch. A few longtime fans gathered at the front, singing along and cheering between verses. Even without his backing band, The Top Surgeons, Cassata brought fire and vulnerability. His lyrics, rooted in love, survival, and self-worth, felt especially potent this year, echoing deeper themes of identity, family, and revolution.
Afterward, I wandered the grounds. Pride felt smaller. Quieter. Less chaotic than in years past. There was an undercurrent of tension that’s hard to describe but impossible to ignore. Heads turned at every unexpected sound. People moved through the crowd with awareness, like they were ready to pivot or leave at any moment. The joy was there, but it felt more careful than carefree.
Eventually, I made my way to the cheerleader area, a familiar and beloved corner of Civic Center. Teams from Sacramento, Los Angeles, and local staple Cheer SF had gathered in front of a surprisingly fun and flashy Red Bull disco truck, collecting donations and performing for the crowd. I caught some thrilling routines, including sky-high basket tosses from Cheer LA, sharp choreography from Sacramento’s crew, and a spirited flag performance from the Harvey Milk Color Guard. It was one of the few spaces that felt truly alive.
By the time I circled back toward the plaza, more people had arrived. Queer couples lounged in the sun; elders caught up with old friends, and performers touched up their glitter in the shade. It had started to feel like Pride again, just a slower, more grounded version.
I headed to the City Hall VIP party next and was surprised to find no line at the ramp entrance. At first I assumed I was running late, but when I checked the time, it was still early afternoon. Inside, the atmosphere was festive but subdued. Not exactly quiet, not solemn either, but far from the jubilant energy of years prior. Compared to last year’s celebration under Mayor London Breed, this one felt more like a corporate reception. And I say that with as much grace as possible. Still, I couldn’t help but miss how much London Breed clearly and enthusiastically celebrates queer people.
Under newly elected Mayor Daniel Lurie, the vibe had shifted. Lurie ran on a Democratic Socialist platform, and while that may sound appealing in theory, I saw for the first time what a “Democratic Socialist Pride” looks like in action. Gone were the upper mezzanine exclusives and multi-tiered receptions. No curated soul food stations, no upstairs dance floor, no photo booths or drag queen meet-and-greets. The party took place across two rooms. It was orderly. Accessible. Efficient. It was also, unfortunately, a little joyless.
The food was fine. Served from the back of the ballroom, it gave off a cafeteria feel that set the tone. The open bar was stocked, but no one seemed eager to drink. People chatted in small clusters, but no one danced. It felt like a reception for a wedding with all the lights on, where everyone is waiting for someone else to start the fun, but no one ever does.
I’m not writing this to complain. I’m writing it because I notice things. Probably too much. Pride doesn’t need to be extravagant to be meaningful, but this year, the shift in tone was impossible to miss. If the goal was equity and practicality, I can respect that. But this new approach didn’t feel like it held the community in a way that inspired connection or celebration.
I left City Hall hoping to catch some of the headlining acts on the main stage. When I arrived, the show was running well behind schedule. But in its place, a surprise: a double queer wedding about to take place onstage, officiated by LGBTQ+ icon TS Madison and Carolyn Wysinger, the mayor of El Cerrito.
Backstage in the wings, one of the couples caught my eye—a beautiful Polynesian pair dressed in traditional Filipino wedding attire, adorned with leis and flower crowns. I asked them for a photo, wanting to capture a quiet moment before the chaos kicked in. The image turned out gorgeous. They were glowing.
Onstage, the two couples repeated their vows into mic stands set up by the crew. Madison read from a pre-written script and Wysinger gave the final pronouncement, sealing the ceremonies. A latex-clad cowgirl ran across the stage firing a bubble gun, because of course they did. I’ve never seen Pride include weddings before on the main stage. Now I think they should do it every year.
Later, I posted a recap reel on Instagram that included the newlyweds. They quickly found the video, and their photo. A few days after Pride, one of the grooms popped up in my suggested accounts. I clicked out of curiosity and saw that the photo I had taken—my one quick snapshot in the wings—was now his profile picture. It was also the only formal wedding photo they had. The rest were blurry candids from friends in the crowd. It hadn’t occurred to me that the only people with them that day were the ones standing onstage. They had no official photographer.
Moments like that remind me why showing up matters. Even when you’re tired. Even when the world feels unrecognizable. Even when you feel like skipping it. Because the truth is, you still haven’t seen all the things that will one day become your favorite memories. You never know when something small will turn into something sacred. Following a quiet instinct led me to that photo, and that photo ended up being cherished by someone else. As someone who lives their life observing, I think those are the moments I live for most. The ones you don’t plan for. The ones that stick.
I checked with a stage manager and found out that Saucy Santana, the day’s headliner, was running nearly two hours behind. By then the weather had started to shift, and the wind was cutting sharp. I wanted to stay, but I also knew better. I’ve been to enough clubs and parties to know when it’s time to leave. Not because the night is ending, but because I’ve had my fill. This time, I left while I was still satisfied.
In the past, I’d go to a full week of Pride events and wish it weren’t over. This year, I attended just one long day. And that was enough. I don’t know if it’s maturity, burnout, or the weight of everything happening in the world right now. Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s all of it. But I’ve started to understand what it means to appreciate something in real time and let that be enough.
I’m glad I didn’t pull the grumpy old femme card and stay home. I’m glad I took the bus, showed up to Civic Center, visited City Hall, photographed the main stage, and ate the wedding cake. Because maybe after all these years, Pride isn’t essential to me in the same way anymore. Maybe it’s that I’ve become essential to Pride.
And when I see it that way, I’m nothing but grateful.
Photos in this article all courtesy of Rose Eden
