Pride, choice, and the “born this way” debate

My response to Julie Bindel

Introduction

As a proudly and openly bisexual man with a deep investment in LGBTQ+ equality, I recently read Julie Bindel’s recent essay “I Wasn’t ‘Born This Way’, and I’m Proud of It” with equal parts interest and skepticism. Bindel, a veteran lesbian feminist, challenges the familiar “born this way” narrative of sexual orientation, arguing that viewing sexuality as an innate trait has political downsides and weak scientific backing. In her view, any woman might choose to embark on a same-sex relationship under the right conditions, and she celebrates the idea that her own lesbianism is a choice rather than a genetic destiny. Bindel’s piece touches on scientific questions (is there really no “gay gene”?), personal identities (late-blooming lesbians and sexual fluidity), and movement strategy (the usefulness or harm of “born this way” narratives and rhetoric in queer activism).

In this counter-essay of my own, I want to critically examine Bindel’s core claims one by one, fact-checking them against current scientific consensus and historical context. My goal is a balanced analysis that acknowledges nuance—especially around sexual fluidity—while rebutting over-generalizations or inaccuracies in Bindel’s argument. In doing so, I also reflect on the political ramifications of framing queerness as innate versus chosen.

Can we validate those who experience their sexuality as an unchangeable part of themselves, while also embracing those who feel a sense of choice or fluidity? And how have these narratives played out in the struggle for LGBTQ+ rights?

Let’s explore these questions with a careful, evidence-based approach.

Bindel’s argument in brief

Bindel’s essay opens with her recounting accusations that she is a “fake lesbian” or really bisexual, all because she “doesn’t believe in the gay gene”. She argues that women can consciously choose lesbian relationships regardless of past heterosexual history, citing many “late-blooming” lesbians who never looked back after finding love with a woman. In the 1970s and ’80s, Bindel aligned with the idea of “political lesbianism,” a concept from radical feminism suggesting women could opt out of heterosexuality to escape patriarchy. Although she no longer uses that label, Bindel remains adamant that lesbianism can be a positive, voluntary choice and not merely an innate condition.

A major target of her critique is the “born this way” narrative. Bindel contends that mid-20th-century gay rights campaigners adopted the notion of innate sexual orientation (“we can’t help it, we were born gay”) to win sympathy, but, in her view, “the evidence has never materialised” for a biological basis of homosexuality. She notes that no “gay gene” has ever been identified, and she pointedly writes that there is “still no evidence showing that same-sex attraction is innate”.

Instead, Bindel highlights environment and experience: she cites psychologist Lisa M. Diamond’s research on women’s sexuality, which found remarkable fluidity over time. In Diamond’s longitudinal study, two-thirds of women changed the identity label (lesbian, bisexual, heterosexual, etc.) they initially adopted at least once over 10 years. Bindel emphasizes that such findings contradict the broad consensus (at least among mainstream LGBT activists) “that a person’s sexuality is determined more by genes than environment”. To her, the popularity of “born this way” thinking may actually discourage women from coming out later in life, by implying that unless you felt inborn same-sex desires from the start, you’re not a “real” lesbian.

Finally, Bindel argues that pinning our rights on biological inevitability is politically risky. She points out that begging for tolerance by saying “I can’t help it” has not shielded other groups (like women or racial minorities) from oppression. And she warns that if we insist sexuality is fixed at birth, we implicitly accept the homophobe’s premise that if it were changeable, maybe it should be changed. In her essay, Bindel applauds actress Cynthia Nixon, who once said that for her, being in a same-sex relationship was a deliberate choice – only to be pressured into retracting that statement by critics who feared it played into anti-gay hands. Bindel aligns with Nixon’s later defiance: “Why can’t it be a choice? Why is that any less legitimate?”. In summary, Bindel calls for lesbian pride rooted in freedom and choice, unshackled from what she sees as a “crazy, unsubstantiated” theory of biological destiny.

That is Bindel’s case in her own words. It’s a provocative mix of historical reflection, feminist ideology, and skepticism toward biological science. But how well do these claims hold up under scrutiny?

Let’s break down the key issues: the science of sexual orientation (is it really not innate at all?), the reality of sexual fluidity (what does research actually show?), and the political strategy debate (born-this-way essentialism versus chosen identity).

Is there really “no evidence” of innate sexual orientation?

One of Bindel’s boldest assertions is that “the evidence for a so-called ‘gay gene’ has never materialised” and that there is “still no evidence” that homosexuality is inborn. She’s right on one count: no single “gay gene” exists. Modern science agrees there is no one gene that determines sexual orientation, a point often misunderstood in both activism and media. The idea of a solitary genetic switch for being gay or straight is indeed a myth. However, Bindel’s phrasing goes further, seemingly dismissing any innate or biological influence on sexuality. Here, however, the scientific consensus does not side with her. Contemporary research indicates that sexual orientation is a complex trait, influenced by a combination of genetic, hormonal, and environmental factors – with genetics playing a real, albeit partial, role.

It’s worth looking at what the science actually says in 2025. A landmark 2019 study published in the academic journal Science analyzed DNA from nearly half a million people and found multiple genetic variants associated with same-sex sexual behaviour. Each genetic factor had only a small effect, and they couldn’t predict any individual’s orientation (no surprise, given the complexity), but collectively these variants suggested that genes account for 8% to 25% of the variation in same-sex attraction in the population.

In other words, genetics is a significant piece of the puzzle – not destiny, but not negligible either. The rest of the variability comes from “environmental” influences in the broad sense, which researchers note can include everything from womb conditions (prenatal hormones, birth order, etc.) to social experiences in life.

Crucially, “environmental” does not simply mean conscious choice or upbringing; it encompasses biological factors like hormones in utero. For example, one well-documented phenomenon is the “older brother effect”: each additional older brother increases the odds that a man will be gay. Recent research links this to a maternal immune response during pregnancy – mothers of multiple sons develop antibodies that may influence the sexual differentiation of the fetal brain. This is strong evidence of an innate biological factor (prenatal environment, not genes per se) affecting male sexuality. As a lead author of that study explained, it bolsters the view that homosexuality is “an innate predisposition” rather than a lifestyle decision.

Similarly, other studies have found subtle brain structure differences and childhood gender-nonconformity patterns that point to biology – for instance, gay men on average have a certain hypothalamus nucleus size more similar to straight women than to straight men, and children who exhibit gender-atypical behaviour are more likely to be gay or lesbian as adults.

None of this means a simple genetic determinism, but it undercuts the claim that there’s “no evidence” of innate factors. There is, in fact, a substantial body of evidence that sexual orientation is at least partly rooted in biology (genetic and prenatal).

It’s also telling to consider the positions of major professional organizations. The American Psychological Association (APA), after reviewing decades of research, concluded: “Sexual orientation is not a choice that can be changed at will,” and it is “most likely the result of a complex interaction of environmental, cognitive and biological factors”, with biological (including genetic and hormonal) factors “play[ing] a significant role”.

Notably, scientists and mental health experts overwhelmingly reject the notion that sexual orientation is a voluntary choice. This stance is partly informed by the dismal failure of “conversion therapy” attempts – efforts to change a person’s orientation through counselling or other means. Numerous studies and reviews (and tragically, many personal testimonies) show that sexual orientation cannot be “recruited” or erased at will: so-called conversion therapies do not make gay people straight, though they can inflict great psychological harm. If sexuality were as simple as a preference one can decide and flip, we would expect some success in those programs; instead, we find virtually none, especially for men.

So where does this leave Bindel’s criticism of the “gay gene” narrative? In fairness, she is correct to push back against genetic determinism. The search for a single “gay gene” did capture the public imagination in the ‘90s (e.g., Dean Hamer’s work on Xq28 was widely misinterpreted as finding the gene), and as a community we have sometimes leaned too heavily on simplistic “born this way” slogans without nuance. There is indeed no simplistic biological litmus test for sexual orientation – human sexuality is far too complex for that.

However, Bindel’s wholesale dismissal of innate factors is misleading. The scientific consensus today is that sexual orientation emerges from a mix of nature and nurture, with a significant natural component. One might say we are “born with a tendency” rather than “born inevitably this or that.” And importantly, not everyone’s trajectory is the same: some people report knowing their orientation (gay or straight) from their earliest memories, suggesting a very deep-seated, inherent drive; others experience more fluidity or changes over time. A serious conversation must accommodate both realities.

In sum, “no gay gene” does not mean “no biology”. It’s possible to reject the myth of a single genetic switch while still recognizing that being gay or bisexual is not simply a capricious choice. Many of us experience our orientation as something innate to who we are – perhaps not present at birth like eye colour, but certainly not a conscious decision either. This understanding has real-world implications, which leads us to the next topic: sexual fluidity and how Bindel frames it.

The nuance of sexual fluidity (especially for women)

Bindel leans heavily on sexual fluidity research to argue that sexual orientation isn’t fixed. She highlights Lisa Diamond’s work showing many women changed identity labels over time. Let’s unpack that. Diamond’s longitudinal study followed 79 or 80 women (all of whom were not straight at the study’s start – they identified as lesbian, bisexual, or unlabeled) for a decade. Indeed, the findings were striking: over 10 years, more than 60% of these women ended up identifying with a different label than they began with. Some lesbians shifted to bisexual or vice versa; some “unlabeled” women adopted a label later, etc. Moreover, about one-third of the women changed their identity at least twice in that period.

These data confirm what many of us anecdotally observe: women’s sexualities can exhibit notable flexibility over the course of their lives. Diamond’s research, alongside other studies, suggests that female sexual desire is often more fluid or context-dependent than male sexual desire. She famously wrote that “sexual orientation in men appears to operate as a stable erotic ‘compass’… whereas sexual orientation in women does not appear to function in this fashion”, resulting in women’s sexuality expressing itself differently across life stages. In plainer terms, a man who is exclusively gay will probably remain exclusively gay, and a straight man will likely remain straight (barring perhaps a suppressed bisexuality emerging); but a woman who spent decades happily heterosexual might, under changing life circumstances, discover a capacity for love or attraction toward another woman – or vice versa.

It’s crucial, however, to interpret Diamond’s results carefully. While many of her participants changed how they identified, most did not flip from one extreme to another. Diamond notes that changes were typically “between adjacent identity categories”. For example, a number of women who had called themselves lesbians ended up identifying as bisexual (acknowledging some attraction to men), and many who started as bisexual or unlabeled eventually settled on a lesbian or hetero label. But it was rare for someone who felt entirely heterosexual to suddenly become entirely homosexual out of the blue. In fact, Diamond found that the women’s underlying attractions didn’t swing wildly from one end of the Kinsey scale to the other; most shifts in self-described attraction were about 1 point on the 7-point Kinsey scale – meaningful but not an absolute reversal. What this implies is that fluidity itself may have an innate range. A person with a capacity for bisexual attraction might express different facets of it at different times, whereas someone truly 100% straight or gay in orientation isn’t likely to spontaneously become the opposite – though they might label themselves differently if social pressures or self-understanding evolve.

So yes, sexual fluidity is real, and Bindel is right to draw attention to it, especially in the context of women’s lives. There are plenty of real-world examples echoing Diamond’s data: women who fell in love with a female friend in midlife after thinking they were straight, or lifelong lesbians who later developed an unexpected relationship with a man. Bindel’s term “late-blooming lesbian” covers a phenomenon many have observed (and that earlier generations of feminists in the 1970s encouraged as a political act). She’s absolutely correct that social conditioning and opportunity play a role – e.g. some women might never consider a same-sex relationship until they meet that one special person or until societal changes make it feel thinkable. The story she cites – large numbers of women leaving marriages during the women’s liberation movement to partner with women – really happened in the 1970s feminist circles. Context can indeed “unlock” possibilities.

However, we should be cautious not to overgeneralize from these truths. Bindel provocatively suggests “any woman, in the right circumstances... could choose to embark on a sexual relationship with another woman”. Is it really any woman? What about the many straight women who, despite having close female friendships, supportive queer-positive environments, and even sometimes curiosity, simply don’t experience sexual or romantic attraction to women? Human diversity is huge; some people are genuinely quite fixed in their orientation. For instance, we all know individuals who have tried to be heterosexual and just couldn’t (classic story for many gay men), and conversely there are heterosexuals who say “I wish I were gay/bi, it looks fun or I love the idea,” but in Bindel’s own 2014 quip, “I just don’t fancy women”. Bindel herself acknowledged hearing that from straight women countless times.

So, while the spectrum of sexuality is real, it’s not accurate that everyone is inherently bisexual or that orientation is purely a matter of will. Fluidity exists for some, but others really do have consistent exclusive attractions. Even Diamond’s research supports this: some participants didn’t change labels at all over 10 years (around one-third stayed the same), and in a broader U.S. survey, heterosexual identity was far more stable than minority identities – over 10 years, only about 1% of straight adults switched to identifying as LGB, whereas a majority of those who started as lesbian or bi did switch (often to a different LGB label, occasionally to straight).

The takeaway is nuance: sexuality is not one-size-fits-all. Many people (especially women, it appears) have a degree of fluid potential that can manifest under certain conditions. Others have a pretty immutable orientation from early on – for them, “born this way” feels literally true. Notably, Diamond herself has expressed concern when her work is misused by those arguing sexual orientation can be deliberately changed. When right-wing or religious commentators seized on “sexual fluidity” to claim conversion therapy could work (“if it’s fluid, just push it the other way!”), Diamond spoke out to clarify that her findings do not support coercive change efforts.

Fluidity is not the same as voluntarism. People can experience unexpected shifts; that doesn’t mean one can be forced to change or can decide to be attracted to someone they’re not. As one Reddit user wryly put it, “Libidos change with age... But that’s not your church making you straight”. In Bindel’s case, she likely always had the capacity to desire women – she didn’t create that attraction out of thin air as a political statement; rather, politics gave her permission to act on and cherish it.

To Bindel’s credit, she explicitly rejects the idea that political lesbianism means “straight women faking it” without genuine desire. She sees it as encouraging women to explore whether their true desires have been suppressed by societal norms. That’s a valid point: compulsory heterosexuality can indeed mask real feelings. Many late-blooming lesbians might always have been lesbian at heart but lacked the awareness or opportunity to realize it earlier. Others might be more accurately bisexual and finally embraced that fact. So the question remains: are these stories evidence that sexual orientation itself is extremely malleable, or simply that self-understanding and openness evolve? The answer is probably “both/and.” Social freedom can alter the expression of an underlying orientation (e.g., a woman with latent bisexuality finally acts on same-sex attraction), and in some cases, the orientation itself may be a bit dynamic (perhaps some people’s brains truly reconfigure whom they desire over time, in response to relationships or personal growth).

In conclusion, Bindel is right that not everyone was “born knowing” they were gay or straight. Especially for women, attraction can unfold in unexpected ways. A rigid essentialist view – that sexual orientation never changes for anyone – is indeed flawed. But it’s equally flawed to imply orientation is basically a choice that can be made on a whim by anyone. The truth lies in between: some experience their sexuality as fixed and inborn, others as fluid and shifting. Our narratives must make room for both without invalidating either. Which brings us to the crux of the political argument: how do we fight for queer rights amid this complexity?

The politics of “born this way” vs. “chosen” identities

At its heart, Bindel’s essay is not just about science or personal stories – it’s about political strategy and pride. She provocatively asks why the LGBTQ+ movement leans so heavily on biological determinism (“we can’t help being gay”) instead of asserting the validity of choosing a queer life. This is a fascinating tension, essentially about strategic essentialism in social movements.

Historically, many liberation movements have grappled with whether to frame their cause as innate identity or conscious choice. Bindel points out that second-wave feminists and early gay liberationists in the 1970s were quite hostile to the idea that biology is destiny. Feminists fought the notion that women’s roles are biologically fixed; analogously, some radical gay activists of that era, like the GLF (Gay Liberation Front), explicitly eschewed the accepted explanation for homosexuality, i.e. that same-sex attraction resulted from a rogue gene. The GLF’s radical manifesto in 1971 rejected the idea of innate temperamental differences and instead saw sexuality and gender behaviours as products of social conditioning. Likewise, groups like the Leeds Revolutionary Feminist Group in 1981 argued that “All feminists can and should be lesbians,” portraying lesbianism as a liberatory choice to quit heterosexuality under patriarchy. Bindel clearly draws inspiration from that tradition. She reminisces about wearing badges saying “We recruit!” as an ironic pride in the idea that yes, we choose this and we’re coming for you (in a fun way).

So if that’s the case, how did “born this way” since become our dominant mantra? The shift happened as the LGBTQ movement moved from the margins to seeking broad social acceptance and legal rights. Starting in the 1980s and especially 1990s, activists found that framing sexuality as an immutable characteristic – something you’re born with, like race – resonated more positively with the public and, importantly, with courts. This wasn’t arbitrary: U.S. legal doctrine holds that “discrete and insular minorities” with immutable traits deserve heightened protections.

In plain language: if you can’t change what you are (and you lack political power and faced historical discrimination), then the law should treat you as a protected class. Thus, to win anti-discrimination cases, LGBTQ lawyers often needed to prove that sexual orientation is innate and unchangeable. During the Proposition 8 trial in 2010, for example, the opposing lawyer tried to undermine a lesbian plaintiff by highlighting her past marriage to a man – essentially implying “if you once loved a man, why can’t you just do that again?”. To counter that, her team had to draw a gay-straight binary, painting her earlier marriage as inauthentic and her true self as lesbian, thereby reinforcing that her orientation was fixed. Bisexuality or fluidity, in that courtroom context, was seen as a threat to the legal strategy – a nuance that might jeopardize the claim of immutability.

This strategy undeniably helped achieve major wins like marriage equality. Public opinion also turned in our favour in tandem with increased belief in the “born gay” idea. In 1977, only 13% of Americans thought people were born gay; by the early 2010s, just over half did, and this went hand-in-hand with rising support for gay rights. Surveys have consistently found that those who believe homosexuality is innate have more positive attitudes toward gay people than those who think it’s “a lifestyle choice”. The narrative “we didn’t choose to be gay, it’s just who we are” has been an empathy device: it positions being queer as analogous to an immutable trait like left-handedness – morally neutral and not a valid basis for mistreatment. It also counters religious arguments that homosexuality is a “sinful choice.” In short, “born this way” was/is a shield: if being gay isn’t a choice, how can it be a sin or something to “blame” someone for?

Yet, as sociologist Shamus Khan argues, this victory came at a philosophical cost: “While the biological determinism of sexuality has been associated with a great triumph for gay rights, it’s been a great loss for our public discourse… The false belief in biological determinism does considerable damage.” Khan and Bindel share concerns that hitching our legitimacy to biology might backfire. One risk is what happens if science tomorrow did find a way to predict or “switch off” queerness – would opponents argue for elimination rather than acceptance (as the Nazis once did)? It’s a chilling thought experiment: basing our rights on “we can’t change” leaves open the retort “but if we could change you, we should”. Another issue is that it can marginalize bisexual and fluid identities. The heavy emphasis on “born either gay or straight” – a binary – often left bi and pan people feeling erased or pressured to conform to one side. Bindel cites the example of Cynthia Nixon being “bullied into apologising” for saying she chose to be lesbian. Under the born-this-way orthodoxy, Nixon’s experience had to be rewritten as “born with bisexual potential” to fit the script. The irony is, of course, that Nixon wasn’t denying anyone else’s innateness; she was just describing her own life. If our movement can’t accommodate that level of personal diversity, something’s wrong.

So is Bindel correct that we should abandon the born-this-way approach? Here I would urge a middle ground. There’s a concept from critical theory called strategic essentialism – temporarily embracing a simplistic identity definition in order to achieve political goals. The LGBTQ movement absolutely employed strategic essentialism by emphasizing immutability. And historically, it was enormously important for the progression of gay rights. That strategy brought us anti-discrimination laws and marriage rights. We shouldn’t dismiss those gains or naïvely pretend that the public (or courts) would have been just as accepting if we’d said “we choose to be this way.” As one legal scholar quipped, showing that sexual orientation is immutable “was not just hand-holding – it was handcuffs” in the courtroom: an unavoidable requirement to win the case.

However, times are changing. There is growing recognition – even in some legal circles – that immutability shouldn’t be the sole basis for rights. The Supreme Court of Canada, for example, in 1995 acknowledged that whether homosexuality is biological or not is ultimately irrelevant; what matters is that it is an integral aspect of personhood that “is either unchangeable or changeable only at unacceptable personal cost.”. This more nuanced view opens the door to protecting people for who they are or choose to be, so long as it’s fundamental to their dignity. And ethically, that’s where I find myself aligning: even if queerness were a choice, it would be a valid and beautiful one. We should not have to hide behind “I can’t help it” to demand respect. There is nothing wrong with being gay, lesbian, bisexual or pansexual – whether one was born that way or decided to live that way. In an ideal world, the slogan would be, “Born this way or chose this way – either is okay.”

Bindel’s rallying cry that she is proud, not apologetic, about choosing her sexuality strikes a chord. It reminds me of the empowerment that comes with reclaiming agency. For those of us who didn’t experience our sexuality as a choice (I personally can’t honestly say I chose to be bi – my attraction spectrum just is), we shouldn’t feel threatened by those who did have more fluid journeys. At the same time, people like Bindel must recognize that many LGBTQ people truly feel they had no choice – and that’s not a mark of shame, but simply an authentic account of their lives. Pride can reside in both narratives: pride that we survived and thrived despite whatever hand we were dealt and pride in consciously embracing a liberated life that defies heteronormative expectations.

The real enemy here is not one another’s narratives, but the bigots who seek to invalidate us entirely, either by saying “it’s a choice, so it’s wrong” or by saying “if it’s innate, you’re a genetic aberration.” We shouldn’t, as Cynthia Nixon warned, “cede any ground to bigots to define the terms of debate”. Whether one’s sexuality is rooted in nature or nurtured by choice, the moral conclusion is the same: everyone deserves dignity and equal rights. To that end, I think the movement can afford to be more honest and multifaceted now. We can say: Some of us were born this way and couldn’t change if we tried; some of us discovered new sides of ourselves later on; some of us even embrace this identity by choice – and all that is okay. The unifying principle is that consensual love and desire hurt no one and should be respected, period.

Finding pride in truth and solidarity

Towards the end of her piece, Bindel writes that “when lesbians are bullied into believing that our sexuality is written in the genes, it results in a distinct lack of pride”. I found that poignant. Pride, the cornerstone of our movement, should not depend on accepting a single origin story for our identities. Real pride comes from self-acceptance and authenticity. If your truth is “I was born this way,” be proud of that truth – it means you’ve embraced yourself as nature made you, against societal pressure. If your truth is “I chose this life,” be just as proud – it means you had the courage to live on your own terms, also against societal pressure. In both cases, you refused to be someone you’re not, and that’s the core of pride.

We’ve seen that the science of sexuality is complex. It’s neither as simple as the old essentialists nor as open-ended as Bindel’s stance might imply. Genetics, hormones, environment, and personal agency all weave together to form the tapestry of human sexual orientation. We do ourselves a favour by acknowledging that complexity. It can actually be liberating not to have to pin our legitimacy on a dubious quest for a “gay gene.” In a sense, who cares why someone is queer? As the Canadian Supreme Court wrote, even if it were somehow “changeable,” it would demand “unacceptable personal costs” – indeed, why should anyone have to change? We don’t ask that of any other intrinsic trait or deeply held aspect of identity.

There’s also a powerful message of unity that can come from bridging these narratives. Consider the generation gap: older activists like Bindel (who came of age in the 70s/80s) often emphasize radical choice and political queerness, whereas younger LGBTQ people post-90s grew up on “Born This Way” anthems (Lady Gaga’s song, among others) and may see their sexuality as an immutable identity. Instead of these two cohorts talking past each other, we could learn from each other. The younger generation can appreciate the liberationist chutzpah of claiming sexuality as a chosen political rebellion – it’s quite punk rock, in a way, and it says “we are actively rejecting heteropatriarchy.” The older generation (or rather, the more radical faction) could conversely acknowledge that the “born this way” tactic did help change millions of hearts and minds by humanizing queer folks as just another natural variant of humanity. Both strategies had their place, and perhaps now we can forge a more holistic approach that doesn’t require disavowing either nature or choice.

In practical terms, this means crafting our advocacy messaging with care. In some contexts – say, fighting conversion therapy legislation – it’s important to underscore that sexual orientation is not voluntarily changeable. Emphasize the innate aspect there to shut down the “choose to be straight” nonsense. In other contexts – say, building community or discussing bi/pan identities – we should validate fluid experiences and the idea that it shouldn’t matter if it were chosen. Law and policy may still sometimes demand the immutability argument, but culturally we can start moving beyond it. Indeed, younger activists are increasingly vocal that “I wouldn’t change even if I could”. That’s a subtly different framing: not “can’t change” but “could, but why on earth would I want to?! There’s nothing wrong with me.” That sentiment renders the cause/origin debate almost moot: it asserts queer identity as inherently equal and valuable, full stop.

Ultimately, I find myself agreeing with Bindel on a key point: our rights and dignity should never be up for debate based on why we are the way we are. We must insist that even if someday a “straight pill” existed, no one should be expected to take it – just as we don’t expect left-handed people to become right-handed or introverts to become extroverts. By reclaiming some of the narrative space for choice and fluidity, we actually strengthen the moral argument: it shifts the conversation from tolerance of the unavoidable to celebration of freedom and diversity. As a queer progressive, I believe in a world where everyone has the autonomy to love whom they love and to define themselves as they see fit, without coercion in either direction.

Julie Bindel’s essay was a bracing reminder not to become complacent or simplistic in our thinking. It challenges us to integrate the lessons of the past with the knowledge of the present. Yes, there’s no single gay gene – but there are gay genomes, gay brains, gay lives woven from biology and experience. Yes, many of us are born this way – but some of us weren’t, and we’re no less queer or valid. The LGBTQ community is big enough to hold multitudes. After all, the very acronym is a coalition of different experiences: the “T” (trans) folks taught the LGB that identity can be deeply felt and chosen (one is born with a gender identity, yet transitioning is a courageous choice to live authentically); me and my fellow “B” (bisexual) folks taught everyone that it’s not either/or, nature often isn’t binary. Perhaps it’s time our rhetoric catches up with that inclusive spirit.

In closing, I’ll paraphrase a sentiment often expressed by activists who have thought hard about this: It shouldn’t matter whether I was born this way or chose this way – what matters is that I am this way, and I have the right to be happy and free. That is the future of queer pride I want us all to embrace, one where strategic essentialism can gracefully give way to strategic authenticity. We don’t need to distort our stories for the comfort of others. Our diversity – of origins, of journeys – can itself be a source of strength.

And on that note, whether you’re a gold-star “born this way” gay, a fluid-by-nature pansexual, a later-in-life lesbian by choice, or anything in between, I raise a toast to you this Pride month. We are here, we are queer – some by birth, some by choice, all by life – and we deserve every ounce of pride we feel.

Thank you for reading. 🏳️‍🌈