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Outhouse LGBTQ+ Centre has been a cornerstone of
support, connection, and advocacy for Dublin’s queer community for almost three decades. But the fight for LGBTQ+ rights isn’t just history – it’s happening now. Rising hostility, political and legal challenges, disinformation, and threats to our safety make spaces like Outhouse not just valuable, but vital. They are a refuge, an open door, and a place where joy can thrive despite it all. As we celebrate Pride month, we reflect on the challenges and triumphs that have shaped our journey – and the resilience that carries us forward. WORDS John Mee PHOTOS Anna Mello Pauline, Eugene, and Annie’s Story When Annie came out as transgender, her parents, Pauline and Eugene, were loving— but understandably worried. “I just wanted her to be safe,” Pauline recalls. It wasn’t instant celebration, but it didn’t take long to get there. With time, a bit of learning, and a lot of love, their response became what it had always been at its core: unwavering support. Now in her thirties, Annie reflects on that here are days when the work we do feels impossible. When progress feels slow, when setbacks feel personal, when the sheer weight of what still needs to be done threatens to eclipse what has already been achieved. The fight for LGBTQ+ rights, for safety, for joy, is rarely straightforward – it is winding, it is relentless, and it is almost always uphill. Just this year, Pride was banned in Hungary – an EU country – reminding us that even hard-won rights can be rolled back. Around the world, homosexuality remains illegal in over 60 countries, with 12 still imposing the death penalty. Here in Ireland, we’ve been ranked as having the worst trans healthcare in Europe. Conversion practices have yet to be banned. And we’re seeing a steady rise in anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric, threatening the safety and dignity of our community. In the face of all this, there are moments of doubt, of exhaustion, of disillusionment, when it’s easy to wonder: Is it worth it? Am I making a difference? But doubt is not a sign of failure. Doubt is a sign that you care. That you know the stakes are high. That you are asking the questions that don’t have easy answers. And that’s just it sometimes – no meaningful change comes from easy answers. On our best days, our urgency to build something better outpaces our fear that things won’t change. And on our hardest days, when fear and doubt linger, we do what we have always done – we outlast it. Because even when we don’t feel strong, we show up – for ourselves, for each other, for those who will walk this road after us. We show up for our community. The work you do matters. The conversations you have matter. The spaces you protect, the kindness you extend, the ways you resist and exist – they all matter. Even when you can’t see the impact in the moment, even when the wins feel too small or too far apart, you are part of something bigger than the fear, bigger than the doubt. So when the fight feels endless, remember: You don’t have to defeat doubt. You just have to outlast it. And we will. While doubt and fear are inevitable, so too is the joy that can be found in our victories – big and small. It’s often the quiet moments, the personal triumphs, and the connections we make that remind us of what we’re fighting for. We don’t just outlast doubt – we build in spite of it. And perhaps the most powerful evidence of that is in the lives we live, and the stories we tell. In celebration of Pride month and the resilience that defines us, we turn the focus to those who embody the spirit of joy, community, and perseverance. Here, we share a few stories from members of the LGBTQ+ community, our community, that showcase the ways in which we celebrate our identities, find strength in one another, and continue to build a future that is not defined by the challenges we face, but by the joy we create. time with appreciation and perspective. “I was always just so accepted,” she says. Still, she’d carried fears with her – fears not shaped by her family, but by the world outside. “I think I was getting it from society and TV... The only time you saw a queer story on TV growing up was like, you come out and then you get thrown out of your house.” Her reality, thankfully, unfolded differently. In a home with four children, two of whom are LGBTQ+, the family’s openness and capacity to adapt has become part of its everyday rhythm. Pauline and Eugene are quick to say they’re still learning. But they’ve never questioned the foundation: love, respect, and togetherness. That acceptance wasn’t born from instant understanding, but rather from the values already embedded in the family. Eugene, her dad, nods to the shifts they’ve all gone through. “You adjust your thinking, you change,” he says, “and you do it because you love your children.” The family is full of warmth and humour— comfortable, affectionate, often playful. There are inside jokes, shared glances, and references to jazz sessions where Eugene and Annie connect through music. “Annie and I get joy,” Eugene says, smiling, “trying our hand pretty simplistically at some jazz tunes.” He adds that Annie has strong and supportive relationships with each of her siblings – “it’s a close-knit bunch,” he says. It’s a quiet kind of joy that pulses underneath their story – something steady and generous. Pauline reflects on this idea with sincerity. “I hear a lot about queer joy from Outhouse,” she says, referring to the LGBTQ+ centre where Annie works. “And I think it’s such a good way to put it. Because there’s so much focus on the struggles – and they are real – but there’s joy too.” She lights up when talking about her children. “Aoife’s met this gorgeous woman, absolutely lovely. And that’s joy for me – to have somebody like that in her family and ours.” She turns to Annie with a cheeky smile. “My joy, what I’m waiting on now, is for Annie to meet someone. No pressure!” This joy doesn’t mean the family has ignored the real challenges trans people face. It’s part of what drove Pauline’s early fears when Annie came out. “I was scared,” she admits. “Scared of the world, of how people would treat her. But never of who she was.” It’s that distinction – between fear for someone and fear of them – that seems to define this family’s clarity. There’s reflection, too. Pauline speaks about identity with an intuitive kind of acceptance. “All of us are on a long line anyway,” she says thoughtfully. “A spectrum. So why can’t gender be the same?” It’s a perspective that feels both simple and expansive. And perhaps that’s the most radical thing of all – not just acceptance, but ease. A home where gender, identity, and love can coexist without condition. Where a family grows alongside each other. Where joy is not a surprise – but something expected, shared, and deeply felt. Stella’s Story My name is Stella, a lesbian woman seeking asylum in Ireland because I had to flee my home country, where my identity put me at tremendous risk. I’ve travelled a journey filled with struggle, pain, and fear, which has led me to a strength and support I never dreamed I could find. Back home, living openly was a life-or-death matter. Growing up in a deeply homophobic society – where being gay or lesbian was punishable by imprisonment or even mob violence – I learned to suppress my true self. I lived with the constant fear of being discovered. I suffered beatings and public humiliation for simply being who I am. When my family found out about my sexuality, I was completely rejected and banished from home. I was told I was a shame and an embarrassment. At that time, I felt like I deserved death rather than the rejection and hostility I was facing. Life felt meaningless in such an environment, and I knew that if I wanted to survive, I would have to escape one day. Leaving my country was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. I had to give up everything for the sake of my life. The journey to Ireland was filled with uncertainty. I was haunted by the fear of whether I would ever find acceptance. When I arrived in Ireland, I felt both relief and anxiety. Seeing LGBTQ+ flags flying in public spaces was thrilling and mesmerizing. I applied for asylum, but the interview process involved revisiting my traumatic past. Each time I shared my story, it felt like I was reliving the shame and pain, and I would again feel like I had to hide. During this difficult time, I was recommended to a remarkable Irish LGBTQ+ community centre – Outhouse – by my counsel. I was hesitant to engage with people, but he encouraged me, saying Outhouse was a place where I could meet people like me. The first time I visited, I sat quietly in a corner and ordered a cup of tea before walking to reception to ask about activities. I was drawn to the Sapphics and Safe Space group activities. Safe Space suited me well, since it was held on Saturdays and I could travel in from Wicklow more easily. When I walked into that first Safe Space group meeting, I was so timid. The room was filled with vibrant, diverse individuals. I felt an energy of belonging that I had never experienced before. I met people like me – each person with a story of struggle and survival – and for the first time in my life, I felt understood. The group meetings, the support, and the people I found within Outhouse became my lifeline. I learned about resilience from others who had endured similar experiences. Together, we celebrate our identities and share in the power of acceptance. I’ve since become a volunteer Safe Space group leader so I can support others who are trying to navigate their own struggles. The Outhouse community has helped me begin 21