When I learned I was living with HIV nine years ago, there were a lot of questions to be answered: how will I access treatment? Will I feel safe and respected by my care team? What does stigma look like for me in the fourth decade of the HIV epidemic? 

While I was fortunate to have a wonderful team of case managers and health care providers who guided me through an unfamiliar and complex medical system, I’ve heard countless stories of people fighting tooth and nail just to find appropriate care, let alone treatment.  

Our country’s labyrinthine, convoluted health system is cluttered with obstacles like prior authorization and step therapy. Both of which needlessly delay access to health care by imposing vague requirements and/or forcing patients to “fail” a series of medications before they are granted access to the one actually prescribed by their physician. For game-changing HIV prevention drugs like PrEP, these hurdles endanger lives. Combined with our current federal landscape being incredibly antagonistic (i.e., the Trump Administration trying to gut $1.5 billion in HIV prevention funding, among a laundry list of offenses), the LGBTQ+ community is facing disproportionate hardships that are exacerbating disparities and contributing to further stigmatization.  

Thankfully, California policymakers are doing their part to protect our community. Assembly Bill 554, authored by Assemblymember Mark González (D-Los Angeles), follows in the footsteps of nine other states by ensuring coverage for all long-acting, injectable drugs used for PrEP and PEP. The bill “safeguards patient and provider choice” by eliminating cost-sharing and expanding access to a wider range of ARV medications to help bolster medication adherence rates. It also ensures coverage for future formulations of ARV drugs that are better at making HIV undetectable and untransmissible. 

PrEP (pre-exposure prophylaxis) and PEP (post-exposure prophylaxis) are effective regimens for preventing the transmission of HIV when taken as prescribed. AB 554 enshrines quick access to these treatments, satisfying calls for health equity, especially for Black and Latino Californians, who face disproportionate transmission and infection rates. 

AB 554 is a huge step in the right direction; however, without consistent leadership from policymakers, those living with HIV will continue to be the first on the budget chopping block. Just last week, the California Legislature passed a budget trailer bill (AB 144) that includes provisions to divert funds from the AIDS Drugs Assistance Program Rebate Fund toward general state operations.  

California policymakers can’t say they’re countering the Trump Administration and supporting the HIV community if they’re also ripping the rug out from underneath us. AIDS Drug Assistance Programs are lifelines – they normalize diagnoses, fund direct services, and help uninsured and underinsured patients access essential care.  

Ironically, while AB 554 will build upon the work of ADAPs to eliminate prohibitive barriers, AB 144 will steal funds from the program to instead boost state revenue. ADAPs already operate from a very small annual revenue of fixed federal funding awards per state. States taking more money away from these critical programs will threaten their ability to serve HIV patients. Moreover, these dollars are statutorily prohibited from being used for non-HIV care by Title II of the Ryan White CARE Act. 

California is destined to repeat the sins of the past unless Governor Newsom steps in. For too long, those living with HIV have been isolated, cast aside, leveraged for political gain, and dropped soon thereafter if something better comes along. We are not budget dust, we are not pawns in a political game, we are real people with real voices, and we’re asking Governor Newsom to do what’s right: redline the ADAP provisions from AB 144 and sign AB 554 into law.  

California can lead the nation in doing what’s right for all communities. But it starts with policy, and we have to make sure policies are centered around those they impact. 

Kalvin Pugh is the state policy director for the Community Access National Network, a national 501(c)(3) nonprofit that works to improve access to health care services and supports for people living with HIV/AIDS and viral hepatitis through advocacy, education and networking.

As gay men, are we having more sex than our fore-daddies or just more open about it? Between Grindr dings that hit harder than Double Scorpio, PrEP prescriptions as our daily gay-ly vitamin, and the ever-present anxiety of FOMO, I think it’s fair to ask, is hooking up becoming a numbers game, more focused on quantity vs. quality, for many of us ‘mos?

For eons, gay sex has been both a subject of fascination and moral panic for those on the hetero side of the picket fence. But the conversation has shifted. Today, the questions come less from pearl-clutching conservatives and more from within our own community. How much is too much? Are we liberated yet? Are more and more of our gay brethren basking in the waters of heteronormativity? And to what extent are our sex lives driven by libido, validation, or the simple fact that we can?

Let’s start with the obvious culprit: technology. Of course, as gay men, the first thing that we did following the birth of the smartphone was create a way to see all of the fair-game dick within a one-mile radius. We were the first to adopt hookup apps as essential social tools, from the early days of Grindr to the onset of Sniffies. According to research cited by Gay Counsellor, compulsive use of apps can mirror patterns of behavioral addiction, where “likes” and “messages” stimulate dopamine in ways eerily similar to gambling. The buzz of a notification becomes less about actual intimacy and more about self-worth. Sex as currency, matches as validation.

A TIME article warned in 2014 that hookup apps might be “destroying gay relationships,” arguing that the sheer efficiency of digital cruising left little incentive for building intimacy. Why invest in a partner when you can have instant access to some NSA ass five feet away? It’s the Amazon Prime of getting off – quick delivery, same-day service.

I think that these critics are missing a nuance here. Apps aren’t inherently bad; they are simply adding a Cialis to what’s already in our culture. If we already treat sex as a form of transactional validation in normal life, apps inject that insecurity with steroids.

Then there’s PrEP, the little blue pill that revolutionized sexual health and, in turn, our sex lives. Since its FDA approval in 2012, Truvada has been both a miracle and a lightning rod. A CUNY study found that PrEP has fueled perceptions of promiscuity. The assumption is that biomedical safety nets invite reckless raw-dogging abandon, reinforcing the stereotype of gay men as hedonistic ho-bags.

But the data tells a more complicated story. Research published in the Journal of Medical Internet Research (2022) suggests that while PrEP use does correlate with higher numbers of sexual partners for some, it also fosters healthier discussions about safety and reduces anxiety around HIV. Translation: PrEP doesn’t make people slutty, it makes them feel secure. If this sense of sexual security emboldens them to embrace their sexuality more fully, is that really a problem? Or is it just a shift in norms?

Of course, none of this exists in a vacuum. As The Conversation notes, homosexuality may have evolved as much for social bonding as it did for reproduction. Historically, gay sex wasn’t just about pleasure but also survival, solidarity, and even networking. In the years after Stonewall, sex was political. It was a sweaty form of protest against heteronormative repression, a celebration of community in defiance of shame.

But in 2025, sex has also become… a competition. Liam Heitmann-Ryce-LeMercier’s essay on Medium critiques how queer culture sometimes conflates liberation with obligation. Promiscuity is framed less as personal choice and more as proof of authenticity. Don’t want to sleep around? Then maybe you’re repressed, prudish, or not “gay enough.” The pressure cuts both ways – to have sex, to crave sex, to keep up with everyone else’s sex.

And here’s where FOMO comes in. For every wild Saturday night Instagram story, there’s someone scrolling at home, wondering if they’re missing out – not on an orgasm, but on acceptance and belonging. The sex itself is just the trophy to the win, secondary to the validation of being chosen, the real prize.

So what actually drives this culture? Libido is undoubtedly up in this. Gay men, like all people, are wired with sexual impulses. But the psychological factors are harder to ignore. Validation looms large. The “yes” of a stranger affirms desirability. The “no” can often feel like a reflection of our worth. Ego magnifies the stakes, turning sex from a dance in the sheets into a scoreboard.

A telling study in the International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health posited that compulsive app users often report using sex as a coping mechanism for loneliness and low self-esteem. Which inevitably raises the question – are we having more sex because we want it, or because we need to prove something, whether that is to ourselves and to others?

No discussion of queer sex culture or sex as a whole would be complete without tackling entitlement. Many of us know the type: the man who can’t take “no” for an answer, who interprets rejection as an insult, who cloaks his bruised ego in accusations of rudeness or exclusion.

Here’s the truth: just because you hand out a cookie or two doesn’t mean you have to share with the class. Consent is not a punch card system, and no one is entitled to anyone else’s body. Yet too often, rejection is reframed as cruelty, with aggressors painting themselves as victims. Is it gaslighting? Maybe. Is it delusion? Almost certainly. The lesson is simple: declining sex doesn’t make you a monster, and other people’s inability to handle rejection doesn’t make it your problem. Autonomy is not negotiable.

So are gay men more promiscuous today? In some ways, yes. Apps have streamlined access, PrEP and doxy have lowered risks, and cultural stigma is withering. But promiscuity isn’t the villain or the hero of this story. It’s a spectrum, shaped by psychology, politics, history, technology, and so much more.

For some, sex is liberation; for others, it’s compulsion. For some, it’s community; for others, it’s ego. The pearl-jammed peril lies not in the sex itself but in mistaking quantity for quality, validation for value, or pressure for choice.

Our challenge isn’t to moralize but to contextualize. To ask ourselves (and only ourselves)  not how much sex we’re having, but why, and to respect that everyone’s reasons for getting down are their own. And to remember that liberation isn’t measured by tallies on a jockstrap waistband but by freedom from stigma, coercion, and shame. Stay safe and stay self-aware, my fellow bedfellows.

Karl Schmid has long been a staple in queer news and media. Hailing from Australia, Schmid grew accustomed to the limelight from a young age, and eventually made a successful transition into American network television through his work on red carpets for ABC. 

In 2018, he would be thrust into the spotlight for a different reason. Despite repeated warnings from professional acquaintances, Schmid came out as HIV positive to share his story, wear down stigmas, and to educate people about important and misunderstood science like the concept of undetectable equals untransmittable. 

And so, Schmid would grow accustomed to renewal. In 2019, he launched Plus Life Media, a platform that shares HIV resources, education, and stories of resilience from people living with HIV/AIDS. He was part of the team behind the Emmy-nominated short documentary, Marty’s Place: Where Hope Lives: an intimate look into a housing cooperative created in the 1990s to support people with HIV/AIDS. Late last week, he flew to New York for the U.S. debut of his latest initiative: HIV Unwrapped. The project pairs researchers and scientists in HIV studies with fashion design students, culminating in a runway show that features bold reimaginings and interpretations of crucial science. 

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The Blade spoke with Karl about the cross-pollination in his own life and career, and how his latest effort is shaping the way he blends activism and media to reinvigorate conversations around HIV/AIDS.

HIV Unwrapped feels like a really interesting pivot into a different kind of modality and platform for you. Can you tell me more about the initiative and how it fits into your legacy of activism and work?

Well, HIV Unwrapped came out of Australia and this wonderful activist named Brent Allan, who I’m good friends with. And Brent had been at, I think, the WorldPride, or something that was happening in Australia, and there was an exhibition where they paired some engineers and science people of varying professions with a fashion designer to try and illustrate their work. 

And he thought, “Wow, what a great way to maybe try and interpret HIV science and reignite the conversation around HIV.” So it started in Melbourne, Australia, and it was successful there. And then they did a version in the UK earlier this year. And then in July for the International AIDS Conference that took place in Kigali, in Rwanda, they did a version. 

And that’s kind of where I stepped in. I think with HIV Unwrapped, you’re drawn into the fashion first — and then the science comes. It’s just a really unique and different way of reframing the conversation about HIV. But beyond that, it’s also working with fashion students, young people, and to see them become so invested in HIV science. That’s what gets me the most excited. Because you’re opening a whole new world to a person who doesn’t maybe really think about HIV all that much, and now they’ve learned all this amazing stuff. Suddenly you’ve got a whole new bunch of people talking about HIV in exciting and fresh ways, and they’re telling their friends and they’re having conversations about it. 

You’re trying to create different entry points for people to not only talk about the science behind HIV and AIDS, but also how we can reinterpret it in original and visually interesting ways.

I mean, look, you’ve got the House Appropriations Committee willing to advance this “Big Beautiful Bill” that slashes $2 billion in HIV funding in this country, and as someone living with HIV, you keep going, “Why would they do that? Why? We are so close to ending HIV.” All of a sudden, we’ve stopped funding research, and we’re stopping this, and I’m just like, “Why?” 

Now more than ever, we’ve got people and politicians and government and a large part of the United States who think, “Oh yeah, HIV isn’t a thing anymore. It’s not important.” Well, it is still a thing. It is still important, and HIV Unwrapped is a way to be creative and open new avenues of dialogue. 

A friend of mine sent me a handwritten note the other day. This is in Texas. One of his roommates wrote a handwritten note to another roommate, saying, “Oh, just so you know, ‘such and such’ has AIDS. So I’d be scrubbing the shower if I were you after he uses it. I personally have decided to go and shower at the gym.” And this is a person in their 30s, so we’re still having these dumb conversations from 1984. 

That’s why I do what I do with Plus Life, and that’s why I’m like, “Wow, HIV Unwrapped is another tool in our toolbox we can use.” And I guess our hope is really that scientists will see this across the country and around the world and go, “Well, that is a really cool way to explain my science and make it accessible,” and want to engage in future projects like this.

How queer communities are represented in the media can leave deep imprints. I was watching an older interview you did where you recall this HIV ad you saw in a movie theater as a kid. The Grim Reaper’s there, and it’s creepy and sinister. It seems like we’ve moved away from that kind of imagery — but it doesn’t feel like we’ve necessarily come to a much better understanding of HIV/AIDS. Where do you think we’re at now in terms of representation?

The fact that, to this day, I can tell you where I was, what the movie was, that it was a Saturday, which cinema it was in, and I was a seven year old kid. It gives you an idea of how burned into my memory that is. And, I agree. I think we’ve moved away largely from the fear tactics, but we’ve stopped talking about it. I’d like to think that we’ve gotten better in representing people living with HIV, on television and film, as just people living with HIV. Where HIV doesn’t become the central storyline, and it’s not a doom and gloom, “woe is me” story. It’s just part of who they are. 

But we sort of dance around anything that’s to do with our bodies or sex or sexuality, because it makes us uncomfortable. And so when I pitch stories to ABC and other networks, and even, quite frankly, trying to get press to cover HIV Unwrapped: we get passed on. People don’t want to talk to us because HIV isn’t sexy. As long as we keep doing that and having that reaction — if we don’t talk about it — we don’t get to a place where we can be comfortable with it. 

Since I came out about my status all those years ago, my focus has been trying to normalize the conversation. That’s how we grow, and that’s how we learn — whether it’s HIV, whether it’s politics, whether it’s anything. But if we don’t talk about it, and we sort of pretend it doesn’t exist, and then we cut funding for it, and we sort of sweep it under the rug: it ain’t going to go anywhere. 

Women of color, Black and brown women, have the highest infection rates in the United States. In the south those rates keep going up and up and up, and now we’re cutting funding to testing and to counseling and to services. I’m really worried that we will end up back with AIDS wards in hospitals again, and there’s no need for it.

To bring it back to HIV Unwrapped, that’s why, if I can come up and work with an amazing group of people to tell stories and to have conversations in fresh ways, then I’m going to keep doing it — whether it’s HIV Unwrapped, whether it’s what I do on Plus Life, whether it’s a television show or whatever crazy thing I come up with next.

It feels like there’s so much watering-down in terms of conversations around sexual health, HIV and AIDS. What is the resistance that you’ve faced, and how has that resistance changed over the years?

I’ve heard, “I think what you’re doing is great. It’s just not the right time to tell the story.” Well, when is the right time to tell the story? I think so many people in America think HIV doesn’t affect them. And the reality is very different. HIV affects everybody. If not now, when? People are still dying in this country. People are afraid to get tested, and they’re living in shame. And they’re hiding what’s wrong with them because of the stigma — and that just shouldn’t be happening. 

I’ve said this a million times too. You know, HIV and AIDS doesn’t kill you. That’s not what’s going to put me in the grave. But it’s the stigma. It’s the bigoted, out-of-date opinions of Congress and politicians and public figures and uneducated people who just think this is somehow some deviant, dirty “sex disease” or drug disease, and those of us who get it deserve it. And you know, television networks, especially, are in the business of making money. And to do that, they sell advertising, and so they’re worried that advertisers will turn off if you talk about this kind of stuff. 

And I think it’s maybe a little bit the opposite. I think if you can find, again, engaging and interesting ways to have real conversations, I’ve certainly found that you get a very vast and wide audience of people who will chime in and may have an opinion. And again, our opinions may differ, and that’s okay, but, but as long as we’re having the conversation, the more you say it, the less scary it is. 

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Almost 20 years after you were first diagnosed with HIV, do you see yourself pivoting now to work more on activism? Is that something you’re trying to focus more on now at this point of your career?

I will say that I’m incredibly fortunate to have worked for as many years as I have in broadcast, and I’ve done some really amazing things, and had some phenomenal opportunities going to the Oscars and doing all those red carpets and celebrity interviews all over the world. They’re all valuable experiences that I’ve been able to build upon. But I will say that in the last sort of two years, especially, my focus has become more about Plus Life and doing these kinds of stories and these kinds of initiatives. 

I am fascinated by people. I think to be a decent journalist or broadcaster, you have to have that innate curiosity. And I am deeply curious about people and people’s behavior and where they come from, and what kind of homes they grew up in, what their friends are like. It’s incredibly satisfying to me. Do I miss being on regular, scheduled programming and television? Sure. It was a fantastic platform, and there’s nothing quite like the thrill of live television for me, and that’s why I loved being in news and entertainment news. 

I think as I sort of get older, and I’m no longer the young kid on the block, and I’m not so nimble with my thumbs and my forefingers when it comes to putting stuff up on social media and Tik Tok and all of that…If I’ve got an opportunity to really hone in on the stuff that I do with Plus Life, there’s nothing more rewarding than that, right?

A behind-the-scenes documentary of the U.S. debut of HIV Unwrapped will be available to stream on November 30th, just before World AIDS Day.

Charlie Kirk was no stranger to controversy. He thrived in it. He built his career on standing at the microphone in crowded lecture halls and telling skeptical young progressives to “prove me wrong.” At just 18, he saw a vacuum on the political map and filled it, co-founding Turning Point USA, which now calls itself the largest conservative student movement in the nation. His reach stretched from high school classrooms to the White House, his podcast drawing millions, his organization boasting thousands of programs, and his presence sparking protests wherever he spoke.

Kirk’s sudden and tragic death has left America reeling. For his followers, he was a bold voice who gave them language to express frustration with the left. For his critics, he was a provocateur who stoked division for profit. But for all of us, his passing should force us to reckon with the fire we’ve built around politics. Because let’s be honest: it isn’t just rhetoric anymore. Words are hardening into violence. Ideas are becoming weapons. And a democracy that devours itself from within cannot endure.

America is fractured. Our civic life feels like it’s splintering beneath our feet. Whether you are gay or straight, trans or cisgender, conservative or progressive, the same truth echoes: hate is taking lives. Too often, leaders build their platforms not by lifting people up but by tearing communities down.

We’ve seen how quickly careless words can spiral into fear, how easily fear becomes cruelty, and how cruelty ends in tragedy. This isn’t about one man’s career or ideology. This is about us — a country that keeps choosing division over dignity, suspicion over solidarity. That choice is killing us.

In this moment, America needs courage. And often, that courage comes most clearly from the communities that have borne the brunt of hate the longest. LGBTQ Americans know what it means to be targeted, to be legislated against, to have their very existence debated in the public square.

And yet, despite that, queer communities have built joy. They’ve built love. They’ve built families, art, churches, businesses, neighborhoods — not in spite of being different, but because difference can be beautiful. That resilience holds a mirror up to America: this is what it looks like to endure, to rise above rhetoric, to keep creating hope even when the world insists you don’t belong.

It’s not the LGBTQ community that needs to be convinced of America’s worth. It is America that needs to be reminded of its own soul.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. spoke of a dream where children of every race could sit side by side in dignity. Today, that dream must stretch wider. It must include queer children who deserve safety, trans youth who deserve freedom, and every marginalized person who deserves to breathe the air of equality without fear.

But make no mistake: this dream will not be realized by vilifying those with whom we disagree. It will not be achieved by mocking faith or silencing the voices of the right. It will come only when conservatives and progressives, red states and blue, stand together and admit that diversity is not America’s weakness — it is America’s genius.

To those on the far right who fear LGBTQ neighbors: your fear is misplaced. The call is not to give up your faith or your freedom. It is to recognize others’ right to theirs. And when we recognize each other’s humanity, the promise of America is finally fulfilled.

What we must do now is clear. If America is to survive this age of division, we must begin by reclaiming empathy. That means looking beyond the noise of politics and policy to truly see one another as human beings — neighbors, families, and communities whose dignity is not up for debate. We must protect the vulnerable, standing firmly with LGBTQ youth, immigrants, people of color, and all who have been pushed to the margins of society. Their safety and belonging cannot be treated as optional. We must celebrate difference, treating diversity not as a problem to be managed but as one of our nation’s greatest gifts. Our strength has always come from the kaleidoscope of identities, cultures, and voices that call this country home. And finally, we must hold speech accountable. Words shape worlds. When leaders choose language that harms, divides, or stokes fear, they corrode democracy itself. When they choose words that heal and summon courage, they open the door to renewal. Only when we embrace these commitments can we move from rhetoric to renewal—and begin the work of healing America together.

Charlie Kirk’s life was proof that words carry weight. His death must remind us that the weight of our words can no longer crush the spirit of this country. The question before us is not whether America will be divided — it already is. The question is whether we will summon the courage to heal it.

The time for slogans and soundbites has passed. The time for renewal is now.

Because if America continues to treat difference as danger, then democracy itself will wither. But if we choose to see difference as destiny, then we can build a nation strong enough to hold us all. That choice is not theirs. It is not mine. It belongs to all of us. And history will remember what we decide. Only when we embrace these commitments can we move from rhetoric to renewal—and begin the work of healing America together.

Emma Roshioru is a senior at Virginia Tech majoring in Political Science and Public Relations. Dr. James Bridgeforth is an independent, nationally syndicated columnist whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Blade, The Washington Post, and the Washington Examiner.

On September 10, Assembly Bill (AB) 554, or the PrEPARE Act (Protecting Rights, Expanding Prevention, and Advancing Reimbursement for Equity Act), was passed with a majority vote by the California State Assembly and Senate. Today, the bill’s leaders are urging Governor Newsom to sign it into law.  

“With a powerful coalition behind AB 554, we were able to get this bill through the process swiftly, and are hopeful that the Governor will see the need for the LGBTQ+ community,” Los Angeles Assemblymember Mark Gonzalez, one of the bill’s co-authors, told the Blade.

AB 554 was first introduced in February, and was penned by Assemblymember Gonzalez and San Francisco Assemblymember Matt Haney. It was formed to amend existing laws around health insurance coverage that currently restrict access to certain antiretroviral drugs, or HIV preventative medicine like PrEP and PEP, and to ease difficulties community clinics face in administering these medications and receiving reimbursement. The bill will also require health care plans to cover FDA-approved HIV medication without enforcing prior authorization or step therapy. 

For Gonzales and the bill’s supporters, AB 554 is about boosting access to various forms of effective HIV preventative medicine and providing a safeguard for people as the state of HIV research and treatment enters unsteady ground. This all comes in the midst of the debate around the House Committee on Appropriations’s 2026 Departments of Labor, Health and Human Services, and Education, and Related Agencies funding bill, which proposes $1.7 billion in cuts to domestic HIV prevention and research efforts, as well as programs that provide care for people living with HIV/AIDS — particularly, low-income people of color.

Assemblymember Gonzalez stated to the Blade that this is a “stark reminder that this epidemic still hits our communities of color the hardest,” and wants to address this by evolving and updating laws to reflect local needs. He is hopeful about the Governor’s impending response, and stated that the bill is “not just a policy; it is a lifeline.”

“It’s about giving people real choices, equipping small clinics with the tools they need to protect lives,” Gonzalez continued, “and ensuring that California continues to put public health over politics.”

Trans advocates have argued for years that anti-trans speech leads directly to anti-trans violence, and were eye-rolled to oblivion. Charlie Kirk, whether as a mouthpiece for what politicians dared not say out loud, or as a hype man keeping the politics of resentment ever inflamed, built a career out of weaponizing right-wing talking points, fueling a culture of violence that ultimately killed him, and now threatens all of us.

The trail of harm caused by Kirk’s rhetoric is not abstract—it lines up with real blood and real deaths. When he blasted the phrase “China virus” into cultural discourse—parroted days later by Trump—anti-Asian hate crimes spiked. His COVID misinformation spread right alongside hundreds of thousands of needless fatalities. When he compared abortion to the Holocaust, he sanctified the moral panic that cleared the way for Roe v. Wade’s destruction—and pregnant people now die totally preventable deaths like it’s 1972 again.

Kirk also called gender-affirming care for youth “child mutilation,” language now enshrined in legislation that has severed a lifeline for vulnerable kids and their families. He urged that trans people be “taken care of the way society handled us in the 1950s and 60s,” that is, with lobotomies, shock therapy, and police persecution. He spent his last moments on earth promoting the conspiracy theory that trans people make up an imaginary majority of mass shooters—classic fascist scapegoating with the obvious aim of inciting more violence against trans people.

The irony cannot be overstated that his actual last words, spoken as he was shot, minimized the human toll of gun violence. In death, Charlie Kirk proved the point that sowing violence with words reaps real-world tragedy. He gave trans activists the last word on the matter forever.

And now we know the truth: Kirk was not killed by a leftist or a trans activist, but by Tyler Robinson—a young white man evidently radicalized by the toxic masculine internet culture that Kirk and his allies normalized. When you cultivate a culture of hate and fear, when you normalize conspiracy and scapegoating, when you insist that violence is the only solution, eventually your own people will turn those weapons back on you. And your personal world is left bereft and traumatized, just like the 47,000 families affected by gun violence last year alone. 

In the aftermath of the assassination, we are now drowning in a pool of speech violence that could lead to an American catastrophe. That is, it does if we miss the opportunity for real liberation that it offers us. 

The Right cannot stop itself from using speech violence—terror carried out with words, designed to destabilize and intimidate. In the hours after the assassination, Republican leaders used Kirk’s blood to paint a target on our backs, issuing statements rife with misinformation that unleashed a wave of bomb threats across the country, forcing schools, hospitals, and community centers to evacuate.

It seems as if they know no other language. But do we? Or have we become radicalized in the same way, just with different targets? Understandable as it may be, and satisfying as it may feel, the Left’s memefied celebration of Kirk’s death only amplifies the violence he put into the world. 

A friend told me about a teacher at their children’s Miami school who tweeted “Karma’s a bitch;” the school was immediately bombarded with mass shooting and bomb threats. I am publishing this article anonymously due to the doxxing and threats happening to anyone who doesn’t lionize Kirk online right now. I won’t be silenced, but I won’t risk my own physical safety, either, and that is how bad it really is right now. This even causes me to question my anger at Center-Left figures like Gavin Newsom, who seem to be glossing over the harm Kirk caused in his life in their public statements—maybe they’re just afraid of getting assassinated themselves. 

We have to see the bigger picture: only Right-wing politicians and billionaire-owned platforms profit from making Americans hate each other to the point of physical violence. Speech that incites violence is not freedom of expression; it is a tool of fascism. It sows chaos, breeds fear, normalizes inaction, allows politicians to consolidate power, and enables the ultra-wealthy to “buy the dip,” profiting off instability. At the end of this cycle, ordinary people will be less safe, less free, and more hopeless—unless we end it.

One of the most radical progressive things we can do right now is refuse hate speech altogether. We have an opportunity to liberate ourselves by creating where Kirk sought to destroy. Stop participating in this angry tit-for-tat, regardless of how righteous your emotions may feel. Don’t share the memes. Don’t feed the cycle. Don’t let your kindness and goodwill corrode by mimicking the hate Kirk aimed at us.

Roll your eyes, but also consider this approach: When you feel the urge to fire back online, step away. Then imagine a possibility. Then take one action that feeds your soul. Call a friend. Organize something that makes your community measurably better. God knows, the Left needs a plan right now—we can use these provocations as fuel to build one.

Of course, it takes a kind of saintly strength to live this principle—one I’m not sure any of us possess right now. But we can resist fascism if we start by noticing the urge to answer hate with hate, and jiu-jitsu that energy into strengthening ourselves and our communities.

Remember the classy response to the death of Fred Phelps, leader of the hate organization also known as Westboro Baptist Church. Queer activists held signs for his family to see at his funeral: WE ARE SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS. Members of his family have since become outspoken against their own work. A few picketers still find their only meaning in protesting funerals, but when was the last time you ever cared about that sad little man, or what he did?

One head of the Far Right media ecosystem hydra has been cut off. That is not a cause for celebration, but it is a real opportunity. Figures like Charlie Kirk are not just another talking head—he was a cult figure who can’t simply be swapped out. There is now a vacuum, and the questions remain: Who fills it? With what?

We have just inherited the gift of a world free of Charlie Kirk’s vitriol. Instead of polluting our future with more of the same, let’s seize this opening and direct our energy toward manifesting the world we wish out loud for every day.

A popular 1980s slogan in the LGBTQ+ community was “We are everywhere.” We truly are part of every profession, every race, gender, class, religion, and more. 

Just as other communities have media outlets that take a “by us, for us” approach to news and information, there has been a gay press in fits and starts going all the way back to 1924, when a U.S. postal worker named Henry Gerber and his pals launched Friendship & Freedom in Chicago. The police arrested Gerber and shut the newsletter down.

More than 100 years later, the state of LGBTQ+ media might be better than what Gerber experienced, but due to discrimination and political headwinds — including corporate backsliding on diversity marketing — there is a struggle to serve the community with strong local LGBTQ+ journalism. 

Which is why I set out in late 2024 to start to document the current state of local LGBTQ+ media in the U.S. Thanks to a grant from the MacArthur Foundation, The LGBTQ+ Media Mapping Project, hubbed at the News is Out collaborative sponsored by the Local Media Foundation, is now available. With a map developed by City University of New York’s Craig Newmark Graduate School of Journalism Center for Community Media, we have a better sense of the strengths and weaknesses facing this niche within the media world.

While I had published a book on LGBTQ+ media several years ago (Gay Press, Gay Power), I still was not prepared for just how precarious this media ecosystem is today. Our report found 18 states with no LGBTQ+ media and that many city-based media are unable to cover their entire states. Millions of people have no local LGBTQ+ media coverage.

During focus groups, we asked the publishers and editors just what needs they have, beyond an obvious infusion of cash. They are seeking to diversify their revenues, to adapt to new technologies, grow their audiences, and to better serve neighboring communities. There are a wide range of recommendations in the report, things the outlets themselves see could be valuable.

Philanthropy has barely stepped into this part of the media universe in part because almost all LGBTQ+ media, both local and national outlets surveyed, are for-profit. But now that more funders see a need to support local for-profit media, this could open up an opportunity to support more of these outlets. Given the political backlash against the community, now is not the time to push these businesses to become non-profit, as that could be a new single-point failure. 

Our report also found that during this time of crisis, there has been a surge in audience, and more willingness to work together. The participants in this research indicated a strong willingness to collaborate across both business and editorial opportunities. But such efforts require an investment of both time and money. Support is needed.

We surveyed both legendary local LGBTQ+ newspapers and newer online outlets. More research should be done on the creator/influencer world, which includes many LGBTQ+ people. And while local LGBTQ+ media was the primary focus of this research, we did survey national LGBTQ+ media. I was surprised how precarious many of these outlets are as well. 

The entire LGBTQ+ media universe could use a strategic plan and an infusion of new resources, which I hope funders will step up to support.

In the meantime, readers can support LGBTQ+ media by signing up for their newsletters, and donating or subscribing if they have those options. 

Please see the report for a full slate of recommendations, here: https://newsisout.com/lgbtq-media-mapping/. The map is hosted on the Craig Newmark Graduate School of Journalism website here: https://lgbtqmediamap.journalism.cuny.edu/ . We will update the map as new outlets are found; indeed, we have already added new dots to the map.

Tracy Baim is the co-author of The LGBTQ+ Media Mapping Project report with Hanna Siemaszko. She is the co-founder of the 40-year-old Windy City Times LGBTQ+ newspaper, and is the executive director of Press Forward Chicago, a journalism pooled fund part of the national Press Forward movement.

I step into the leadership of the National Minority AIDS Council at a time of both extraordinary possibility and profound peril. We are living in a moment where science has given us the tools to end HIV as a public health threat—PrEP, PEP, U=U, long-acting injectables, and decades of research that have transformed what was once a death sentence into a manageable condition. And yet, the systems meant to deliver these tools are under siege.

Public health is being politicized. Science is being undermined. Civil and human rights are being rolled back. The safety and security of LGBTQ+ people—especially Black and Brown queer and trans folks—are increasingly fragile. In some states, even saying the word “gay” in a classroom is considered controversial. In others, access to gender-affirming care is being stripped away. And all the while, HIV continues to disproportionately impact communities that have been historically marginalized and medically neglected.

So yes, I step into this role with a sense of urgency. But I also step in with pride. Because I know what it means to be underestimated. I know what it means to be told you don’t belong. As a Black, church-going, gay boy from the South Side of Chicago, I grew up in a world that didn’t always see me, didn’t always protect me, and certainly didn’t expect me to lead a national movement. But here I am. And I’m not alone.

I carry with me the legacy of those who came before—of Marsha P. Johnson and Bayard Rustin, of Magic Johnson and Ryan White, of the activists who lay down in the streets and shouted “Silence = Death” until the world finally listened. I carry the wisdom of Black grandmothers who raised generations through grief and grit. I carry the fire of young people who refuse to be silent, who organize, who vote, who demand better.

At NMAC, we are not just fighting a virus, we are fighting the systems that allow it to thrive. We are fighting racism in healthcare, transphobia in policy, and stigma in every corner of society. We are fighting for Black and Brown communities, for LGBTQ+ youth, for aging people living with HIV who deserve dignity, not invisibility.

This is not just a job, it’s a calling. And it’s a call to action for all of us.

We must raise our voices louder than the attacks. We must claim space in rooms that were never built for us. We must demand funding that reflects the urgency of our communities’ needs. We must protect the programs that work—like Ryan White, HOPWA, and PEPFAR—and expand access to innovations like long-acting PrEP.

We must also tell the truth: that ending the HIV epidemic is not just a scientific challenge, it’s a justice challenge. It requires confronting poverty, housing insecurity, criminalization, and the erosion of civil rights. It requires centering people who live at the intersection of multiple oppressions. It requires love, radical empathy, and unapologetic leadership.

I am ready to lead. But I cannot do it alone.

To every activist, provider, policymaker, and person living with HIV: this is your movement too. Your voice matters. Your story matters. Your survival is revolutionary.

Let’s build a future where HIV is no longer a threat—not because we ignored it, but because we faced it head-on. Let’s build a future where public health is protected, science is respected, and every person—regardless of race, gender, or sexuality—can live with dignity and thrive.

Let’s build it together.

Harold Phillips is incoming CEO of National Minority AIDS Council. 

September is Suicide Prevention Month, a time to address often-ignored painful truths and readdress what proactivity looks like. For those of us who have lost someone they love to suicide, prevention is not just another campaign. It is a constant pang that stays.

To lose someone you love to suicide is to have the color in your life dimmed. It is beyond language. Nothing one can type, nothing one can say to a therapist, no words can ever convey this new brand of hurting we never imagined before. It is an open cut so deep that it never truly, fully heals.  

Nothing in this world is comparable to witnessing someone you love making the decision to end their life because they would rather not be than to be here. Whether “here” means here in this time, here in this place, or here in a life that has come to feel utterly devoid of other options, of hope, or of help, the decision to leave often comes from a place of staggering pain and a resounding need to be heard. The sense of having no autonomy, of being trapped inside pressure so immense it compresses the will to live, is no rarity. It is a very real struggle that so many adolescents and young adults carry the weight of every day.

Many folks in our country claim to uphold the sanctity of human life.  But if that claim holds any validity or moral grounding, it would have to start with protecting the lives of our youth. Not only preventing their deaths but affirming and improving the quality of their lives. We need to recognize and respond to the reality that for too many adolescents and teenagers, especially those who are marginalized and chronically underserved, life does not feel so sacred. It feels damn near impossible.

Today, suicide is the second leading cause of death for Americans ages 10 to 24. That rate has almost doubled since 2007. Among queer-identifying youth, the statistics are crushing. Nearly 42% have seriously considered suicide in the past year, and almost 1 in 4 have attempted it. These are not just numbers. These are the children and teens we claim to care for and protect. These are kids full of potential and possibility who come to believe that their lives are too painful or meaningless to go on.

For our youth who identify as both queer and BIPOC, the numbers soar to even more devastating heights. Discrimination, housing insecurity, trauma (complex, generational, or otherwise), and isolation pile on the already stacked mental health risks. Transitional times like puberty, continuing education, coming out, or even being outed can all become crisis points. And yet, the resources available to support these youth remain far too limited, particularly in rural and underfunded communities.

We must also call out a disheartening truth. Suicide is not just a mental health issue but also a political one. Despite years of advocacy and an undeniable increase in youth mental health crises, funding for prevention is barely pocket change in regard to national budgets. In 2023, the federal government spent an underwhelming $617 million on suicide prevention efforts. To provide some perspective, that’s less than what we spend each year defending the border wall.

Meanwhile, school-based mental health services, one of the most effective means of reaching children and teens early, are being decimated. A $1 billion mental health grant program, which began after the Uvalde school shooting aiming to increase school counseling services, was recently pulled from hundreds of school districts. In some places, that left over 1,000 students for every 1 mental health provider. And in others,  it left entire counties with zero youth therapists.

This rollback is not an isolated agenda. It operates in tandem with a cultural and legislative attack on the LGBTQ+ community and our access to affirming education, healthcare, and visibility. Programs that create safe spaces and lifelines are being wiped away. The LGBTQ+ line of the 988 suicide hotline, created to offer identity-affirming, culturally competent crisis support, was recently defunded, despite having provided help to over 1.3 million callers. The political message here is unmistakable. Only some lives, some pain, and some needs of a select group are worth the money and care.

I can’t help but contrast this with how our country controls the process of childbirth. Over the last decade, particularly following growing awareness and resulting concern around maternal mortality rates, the U.S. has consistently increased investment in maternal health. Federal funds now support initiatives like Healthy Start, safety improvements in birthing facilities, and dedicated maternal mental health hotlines. In 2022, the Into the Light Act was passed, allocating $170 million over six years for screening and treatment of postpartum mental health conditions. These are great and necessary efforts. But even here, we fall short. A study published in JAMA Psychiatry in November 2023 examined drug overdose deaths among pregnant and postpartum women in the U.S. from 2018 to 2021. The findings revealed that suicide and overdose were the leading causes of death during this period.

Yet even this limited progress for new parents shows us an undeniable contradiction. As a nation, we have shown we are capable of legislating support for life when we are politically and morally motivated to. We can pass bills, allocate funds, and create crisis hotlines. What’s missing is the motivation to extend that same urgency to the mental health and well-being of young people before they become statistics.

At the same time, astonishing amounts of public money have been directed toward restricting reproductive freedom. Since the overturning of Roe v. Wade in 2022, states have collectively spent hundreds of millions of dollars enforcing abortion bans, funding legal battles, surveillance infrastructure, and crisis pregnancy centers that often provide misleading information. 

In 2023 alone, Texas allocated over $140 million to the Alternatives to Abortion program, while at the same time slashing funding to health providers that offered comprehensive reproductive care. Nationwide, anti-abortion lobbying and litigation have received sustained state and federal backing, often at the expense of preventive care, contraception access, and the very maternal health supports that claim to be prioritized. Only the willful can ignore the blatant contradiction here. While suicide and overdose silently claim the lives of mothers post-childbirth, far more political and financial energy is funneled into controlling whether people can become mothers in the first place.

Real prevention should not be limited to easy words and good intentions each September. Real prevention should be about intrenching mental health support into the daily lives of young folks. It means funding school counselors and social workers so that every child has someone to talk to. It means restoring services that center the needs of queer, Indigenous, and BIPOC youth, who are far too frequently left behind. It means guaranteeing that crisis lines are open. It means creating and nurturing environments where vulnerability is not discouraged but invited.

We also have to stop criminalizing mental health crises. Way too often, suicidal and struggling youth are met with handcuffs or hospitalization that adds layers to trauma rather than with compassion. Prevention must be proactive, not punitive. We need peer support groups, trauma-informed teachers, and trusted adults who are trained to notice the signs before the worst happens.

We are also overdue for a culture shift. A society with the alleged aim to value life does not shame those who are struggling to hold onto it. Contrary to popular unsaid belief, strength is not stoicism. Strength is connection. It’s knowing when to ask for help.

If we as a country actually and honestly cherish life, we have to prove it. We have to prove it not with words but with resources, policy, and compassion. Suicide prevention cannot begin and end with simple slogans and annual awareness. It has to mean a continuous investment in systems of care that affirm life, especially for those who are most vulnerable.

This September, as we recognize Suicide Prevention Month, I dare us to do more than to just memorialize those lost. Let’s start fighting for those living. Let’s create a world where no child, teen, or young adult feels that their only way out is to stop living. They are not expendable. They are not alone. And their lives are sacred. If only we had the heart to act like it.

I am almost ashamed to say that it wasn’t until I lost someone I love to suicide that I began volunteering my time to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. The work that the AFSP does is not only needed, it’s imperative today more than ever. If nothing else, please hit this link and donate.

At a time when the world feels like it’s already choking on mouthfuls of disheartening news every day – genocide on the Gaza strip, climate crisis, political descent here and abroad – the last thing any of us want to hear about is another headline on a young star reportedly hospitalized following a possible overdose. Yet here we all are, watching a very familiar pattern unfold. This time, it’s our beloved queerby Lil Nas X.

According to TMZ, Lil Nas X, né Montero Lamar Hill, was reportedly hospitalized for a possible overdose mere months after he opened up publicly about how difficult the last few years of his career have been. He took to social media, stating, “I jumped straight into adulthood with extreme fame around me. So it was really nice to be just outside walking and meeting people in the streets and eating at restaurants, just even alone, spending a lot of alone time in solitude.”

Sound familiar? It should. The razzle-dazzling surface of fame seldom shows us the internal clutter and chaos, the pressure, the expectation to always be on, meanwhile mental health is brushed aside. And for our queer artists, particularly Black queer artists like Lil Nas X, the burden becomes that much denser.

We’ve seen this before. Demi Lovato. Aaron Carter. Whitney Houston. Talented, beloved artists who, for one reason or another, found themselves unraveling under the unrelenting scrutiny and chaos that comes hand in hand with fame. Some of them make it through. Some don’t. Many cry for help ages before things reach a breaking point. But what did we do? Did we listen? Did we leave Britney alone? Or are we the ones who light the match, pull out our phones, and film the flames? For once, please don’t tag me.

Lil Nas X sashayed onto the scene not just as a chart-topping artist, but as a cultural disruptor. Diva wore dresses to award shows. He clapped his cheeks on Lucifer in the music video for Montero. He vogued his way into the conversation on gender, sexuality, religion, and race that made a whole lot of folks uncomfortable, and that was the point. We were living for it, for him. We liked, we shared, and we reposted. We ate it tf up and licked our fingers clean. But did we ever truly care?

When a person like Lil Nas X steps out of the spotlight to say, “I’ve been having a  hard time,” do we respond with any empathy, or just wait around for the next head turning lewk or satanic lapdance? It’s easy to forget that behind the headlines is a real human. One with a nervous system, a childhood, a family, and so much more. And, what most often goes ignored by all, a limit.

There is something particularly painful about seeing this happen to queer people in the public eye. We’re told that visibility is freedom. And to an extent, it is. Lil Nas X became a rare symbol of queer Black excellence in mainstream media, an unapologetic icon. But visibility without protection has the potential to be fatal. Fame doesn’t guarantee safety – not physically nor emotionally. As a matter of opinion, for queer people, it’s more often than not the opposite.

When you’re queer in the spotlight, you’re performing resilience first and music second. You’re expected to rise above, to remain unbothered, to smile at all times no matter the weight of the pressure, to be a walking teachable moment at every moment. And when you break down? People either turn their backs or turn you into a meme.

FACT: mental health in the queer community is already a crisis. Study upon study have consistently shown that LGBTQ+ identifying folks are at significantly higher risk for anxiety, depression, and suicide. Add international stardom to the mix, and you don’t get immunity from this. You get fast-tracked.

And yet, we continue to lap up these public struggles like entertainment. The media machine feeds on our thirst, and we keep clicking. Headlines about a “possible overdose” become the most clicked clickbait. Tweets become jokes. Vulnerability becomes viral.

So then we have the question, what does it mean to authentically support an artist like Lil Nas X, not just when he’s on stage, but when off stage as well? When the posts stop posting. When the glitter dulls. Are we prepared to support our icons through their harder times the way we do when they’re on top of the world?

We can start by changing how we engage. Honestly take a moment to ask yourself, are you clicking on these stories to gag or to understand? Are you giving compassion or commentary? Are you holding a mic to their cry for help, or are you fetishizing their struggle?

We also need to shine a light on the entertainment industry to offer real mental health resources and protections, especially for young and marginalized artists whose career they are both responsible for and profit immensely from. Care does not come hand in hand with fame. It’s often the reason care is a concern.

We don’t know the full story of what happened with Lil Nas X, and jumping to conclusions is like eating at Chick-fil-A: only those of low intellect are tempted. But what we do know is that someone allegedly ended up in the hospital after publicly saying they were struggling. That alone should be enough to warrant concern. Not for the gossip or clicks but for simple humanity.