Living Out Loud: Exploring Non-Binary Joy and Queer Celebration
The Power of Joy in a World That Tries to Erase Us
Queer joy can be loud. It can radiate from dance floors, marches, laughter, or neon lights.
For me, queer joy is just as profoundly loud as often as it is quiet. It’s in the stillness of a morning with my partner, the safety of my chosen family, or the freedom of walking through a public space hand-in-hand, knowing I don’t have to shrink myself to be safe.
I’ve felt queer joy in unexpected places: at Pride protests where thousands of us raised our voices against injustice, and somehow, in the middle of all that risk and rage, still managed to laugh. To sing. To hug. To celebrate being here at all. That kind of joy is both powerful and fragile. Resistance made human.
Coming out as non-binary was not a one-time event, and neither is joy. Just like identity, it’s something I return to again and again. A deliberate choice to live fully, express honestly, and connect meaningfully. Whether it’s hyping up queer artists, exploring LGBTQ+ spaces abroad, or reclaiming traditions with my ancestry and culture—joy ties it all together.
In a world that often tells us we are “too much” or “not enough,” celebrating ourselves becomes revolutionary. In this piece, I want to explore what queer joy is, why it matters, how it shows up, and why honouring it is a radical act of resistance.
What Is Queer Joy, Really?
“You were not just born to center your entire existence on work and labor. You were born to heal, to grow, to be of service to yourself and community, to practice, to experiment, to create, to have space, to dream, and to connect.”
— Tricia Hersey, Rest Is Resistance: A Manifesto.
Queer joy isn’t just happiness. It’s not the polished kind of pride sold by corporations in June or the tidy narratives that make cishet people comfortable. It’s deeper.
Sometimes fleeting, sometimes overwhelming. It’s the joy of becoming, of finally recognising your reflection in the mirror after years of uncertainty. It’s reclaiming parts of yourself you were taught to hide.
Before I had the language for “non-binary,” I tried on different versions of myself, hoping one would stick. For a while, I called myself a gay man, not because it fit, but because it was close enough and felt safer. Queer joy, in those days, came in tiny bursts. Wearing makeup at night. Dancing without apology. Feeling desire without shame.
Now, queer joy feels like wholeness. It’s in saying “I’m non-binary” without explaining myself. It’s in expression that doesn’t require translation. It’s not always a spectacle. Sometimes, it’s just sitting in the sun with my cat, cooking with my partner, or getting a message from someone who says my work made them feel seen.
Queer joy, to me, is the freedom to feel fully human. It’s not about being palatable. It’s about being real.
Celebration as Resistance in a World of Erasure
“Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”
— Audre Lorde, A Burst of Light.
It’s easy to overlook joy when survival takes up so much space. For so many of us, especially non-binary and trans folks, joy hasn’t always felt like an option. Joy has felt like a luxury. But the truth is that joy is a form of resistance.
I’ve felt it at vigils and protests, standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers who feel like kin. In those moments, despite the grief, the risk, the police lines and the hate, we still find ways to laugh. To dance. To shout chants that turn into anthems. That’s not just resilience. That’s revolution.
There’s something profoundly radical about celebrating when the world expects you to disappear. Whether we’re gathering for Pride, performing on stage, or even just existing openly in public space, that joy pushes back against centuries of erasure. Against every law, every slur, every “they/them? Really?” we’ve ever had to endure.
I remember walking through a march where someone had written “We are the joyful future” on a cardboard sign. That stuck with me. Because joy isn’t naïve. Joy is defiant. It’s a refusal to let trauma be the only story.
When we celebrate ourselves and each other, we’re building futures where queer people thrive. That’s why joy matters. That’s why it’s political.
Finding Joy in Community, Art, and Identity
“The most beautiful part of your body is where it’s headed. & remember, loneliness is still time spent with the world.”
— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous.
Queer joy lives in the in-between—between identities, borders, mediums, and moments. I’ve found it in unexpected places: editing a film that honours my Polish grandmother’s memory, dancing with friends in a queer bar in Bangkok, or walking through a Christmas market in Wellington surrounded by diaspora communities and shared language.
Community is where joy becomes expansive. Whether it's supporting queer artists at local shows, creating blog posts for Enby Meaning™, or just hosting a dinner with chosen family, those moments root me. They remind me that we aren’t meant to navigate this world alone.
Art has always been my lifeline. As a filmmaker, photographer, and writer, I’ve used storytelling to make sense of my queerness and to archive joy. There’s something sacred about documenting ourselves, not just in pain or struggle, but in celebration. Every queer artist who dares to be visible is creating a roadmap for someone else’s joy.
Joy also lives in the body. In finally wearing what feels right, using the pronouns that reflect my truth, or hearing someone say, “you made me feel seen.” It lives in the photos I take, the languages I learn, and the rituals I reclaim, from pierogi-making with my sister to embracing Matariki as part of my Aotearoa life with my partner.
These intersections of art, culture, family, and queerness are where my joy thrives.
Protecting Our Joy in a Digital and Capitalist Age
“I will not have my life narrowed down. I will not bow down to somebody else's whim or to someone else's ignorance.”
— Bell Hooks
In a world where queer aesthetics are mined for marketing and “visibility” is often a code word for exploitation, queer joy can feel like it’s constantly under threat.
Every Pride month, our symbols are co-opted by brands that ignore us the rest of the year. Algorithms flatten our nuance. Platforms censor our language. Our joy is sold back to us in rainbow packaging without our consent.
But queer joy wasn’t made for display. It was never about performance. Joy is about presence.
As someone building a queer media brand, I’ve felt this tension deeply. Enby Meaning™ wasn’t created to become just another content machine. It was created as a haven. A slow, intentional space. A place where non-binary and queer people could be seen. That means constantly asking: who are we creating for? Who is this serving? What are we refusing?
There’s power in saying: this doesn’t belong to the market. There’s joy in taking something sacred—like gender euphoria, chosen family, or the softness of queer love, and protecting it from being commodified.
For me, that protection looks like:
* Refusing to turn my identity into a performance for algorithms.
* Creating blogs and resources that centre non-binary people without only monetising their pain.
* Saying no to collaborations that dilute our voice or flatten our politics.
* Making space for rest, ritual, and reflection offline—whether that’s a day spent in the bush, a long phone call with my sister, or cooking food from my ancestral roots.
It also means being honest about burnout. About the grind of always having to justify our existence, especially as queer creators in capitalist systems. I’ve had to remind myself: I’m not here to create content, I’m here to build connection.
In an age of doomscrolling and data extraction, choosing joy is an act of reclamation. Choosing privacy is powerful. Choosing slowness is revolutionary.
Our joy doesn’t owe anyone visibility. It just has to be ours.
Conclusion: A Note to Our Future Selves
To my younger self: queer joy once felt distant. Like something meant for someone else. Something you had to earn. Or prove. Or hide. But you’ve grown into someone who knows that joy isn’t a reward, but a right.
Now, I understand that joy can be quiet and slow. It can be messy and complicated. It can be radical. And it can be ours, even when the world tells us it shouldn’t be.
Queer joy is a protest song. A prayer. A party. A promise.
Joy keeps us going and brings us home.
In my work with Enby Meaning™, I’m building a future where we don’t just talk about survival but also celebration. About pleasure. About peace. I want us to tell more stories where we are whole. Loved. Free. And joyful.
We are going through trying times. That is a fact. But when have we ever not been?
So if you’re reading this—wherever you are in your journey—know this:
Your joy matters. It’s not frivolous. It’s not selfish. It’s not naive. It’s the root of your resistance—the soul of your story.
We must hold space for joy and celebration together. Because without joy, without striving toward it, what are we truly fighting to live for? If not peace for our community, then what? We must live today in thanks for the generations who came before us, not only surviving for us, but carving space for us to thrive.
Our joy is not betrayal of their sacrifice, it’s the fulfilment of it. We fight so that future generations don’t just live, but live free. So that the trauma ends with us. We cannot let those sacrifices become us, or let grief be the only thing we inherit. We deserve more.
Let’s honour them. And let’s choose joy, for us, for each other, for what comes next.
“Joy is an act of resistance.”
— Tori Derricotte
Want to share what queer joy means to you? Leave a comment below, or tag us on social media @EnbyMeaning or use #EnbyMeaning to join the conversation.
You can also explore related reads like: Enby Meaning: Understanding Non-Binary Identity in 2025 & Beyond.
