It’s almost impossible to explain the impact of Camp Pride. I don’t think I could have understood it until I experienced it myself. But the world needs to know about it, so I’m going to try.

Camp Pride describes itself as “a queer camp for your inner child.” For me, it was a doorway into a whole new way of being. To understand why, it helps to know how I got there. If you’d rather skip my personal journey and jump straight to what Camp Pride is like, you can scroll to the end.

Lots of really happy people, many with hands up or making hearts with their hands, in front of trees, a lake, and a volleyball net — First Camp Pride 2025 group shot. Photographer: Abigail Rodriguez

Boy-Crazy (Or So I Thought)

I was boy-crazy as early as middle school. I’d buy Tiger Beat magazines whenever my mom would let me, photocopy the cutest faces (mostly Taylor Hanson), cut those copies up (preserving the sanctity of the originals), and turn them into jaw-dropping collages. I plastered them onto my walls and even my ceiling, next to my glow-in-the-dark stars. I wanted to fall asleep gazing into Taylor’s beautiful eyes.

Looking back and reflecting on the quality of 90s photocopiers, those grainy black-and-white eyes staring down at me had “performative” written all over them. And it’s not lost on me that my main crush was the most feminine boy pop star of my time. Back then, if anyone told me he looked like a girl, I’d roll my eyes. He was the cutest boy out there, and I was crazy for him. I didn’t think much about “being straight”, but it was a given in my mind.

Cracks in “Straightness”

My belief in straightness dissolved during one session of high school civics class. I usually spent that period with my head on my folded arms, drool collecting on the desk (sorry, Mr. Peterson; it was because I stayed up too late, not because of you). But the day Brick, a female PE teacher, guest-starred as our speaker, I couldn’t help but stay awake.

Brick shared her story. She’d built a life with a man she’d loved, which included marriage and kids. They eventually divorced, and at some point after that she realized she was falling for her female friend. Brick was confused… how could she be falling in love with a woman when all of her history was with men? She couldn’t shake the feelings, so she asked her therapist what was happening.

The therapist asked if she believed in soulmates. She said yes. Then came the question that changed everything: “Do you think souls have gender?” She said no. And with that, Brick gave herself permission to experience the greatest love of her life.

I didn’t know what I thought about souls, but in that moment I knew this: it was impossible to know undoubtedly that you were straight.

So I started periodically checking in, and asking myself if I could be gay (every hetero person does this, right?). Especially when I became irritated with guys, or met a girl who was really cool. The answer always came back as no. Vaginas were scary. And I was very into dudes.

So I very happily dated men throughout my twenties and into my thirties. I loved it. Men took up a lot of my time and a lot of mental space. I tried and failed to make dating sites cool before apps were a thing. Plenty of Fish and Craigslist (seriously) were some of my faves.

In addition to a lot of fun, I had some great connections. I had a few great relationships, and daydreamed about how more than one of those guys would look in his tux as I walked toward him down the aisle. But there was only one guy who I ever had a deep enough connection with that that seemed like a real possibility, and we wanted different things.

From Ally to Something More

I always considered myself a good ally to the LGBTQ+ community. In college, I briefly canvassed for the Human Rights Campaign. And as an engineer in Louisiana, I put together a trans-inclusive “diversity moment” for a team meeting after a colleague made a joke about Caitlyn Jenner. I wanted to teach people how to use better language and be better allies.

By 2021, I still thought of myself as a great ally. As Pride approached, I checked in with the organizers to make sure allies were welcome at every event. They were. So I showed up loud and proud, with extra glitter to share.

I had an absolute blast at Hermosa Pride. I felt free, full, and joyful. And things started to shift. As I started noticing more bi and pansexual representation in town and in media, my check-ins with myself started changing. Did I actually want to make out with Alexis Rose? Yes. 100% yes.

Confusing? You bet. And a little funny looking back. Thanks to Brick, I never had a full-blown identity crisis. But still, I did question whether I was queer enough to belong.

I wrestled over how to show up in queer spaces, especially when it came to returning to the next year’s Hermosa Pride. Was I queer “enough” to be more than an ally? Was I even allowed to be a “member of the community” in a space where I implied I was “just an ally” a single year before??? If it feels silly to read this, know that it also felt silly to write. But in the moment, the questions… and the concerns… were my reality.

TGFIG

Bara's arm with rainbow bracelets and a trans-inclusion- designed rainbow lifeguard and a temporary tattoo coming off that says "Am I valuing myself in this moment?" — I rocked those tatts!

One day I was minding everyone else’s business, scrolling through Instagram, when an old friend’s story caused me to lean in and stop my scroll. She’d reshared a post from the Queer Sex Therapy account which was all about how there’s no such thing as being queer “enough”. Sexual identity and gender identity are in the eye of the beholder (which seemed obvious when applied to others, less so when it was about ME). My therapist confirmed this, and made me laugh when she asked if I thought they were going to stop me and ask me how I identified before they let me into Pride. I went, without a label, and had even more fun than the previous year. This time I adorned strangers with both glitter and temporary tattoos.

More at home with my own identity, I now wanted it to be understood by everyone else. Without “coming out”. I didn’t want to perpetuate the idea that people need to make a big announcement when they decide they’re attracted to the same gender. Straight people don’t sit their parents down to announce that they like the opposite sex. So why should queer people owe the world a big reveal?

Still, I wanted my friends to know. I wanted them to set me up if they met my perfect match, and to know that they might not come in a cis male form. So I started casually correcting friends who asked about the “perfect guy.” And I made a Facebook post asking my network to keep an eye out for what I was looking for in a partner—describing what I was looking for while intentionally leaving gender out. I thought of it as a subtle coming out. Some people got it. Many didn’t. That’s a story for another time.

Enter Sarah

Second date with Sarah. Look at those smiles!

After developing a crush on a woman who wasn’t an option, I decided I needed to start dating women in real life (I’d been doing it in my head for a while). Apps seemed like the fastest route. I downloaded Hinge, opened up my gender preferences, and went on plenty of great dates (and a few awful ones).

A couple months in, I matched with Sarah. Our first dates were a little awkward, but the spark was obvious. We couldn’t leave one without planning the next. I’d come home to my cousins and overanalyze every moment, and they’d assure me I hadn’t completely blown it. Within a couple weeks, we were official. Within months, the love and connection had outgrown anything I’d ever known.

My First Camp Pride

As soon as I learned about Camp Pride on Revel Gear’s Instagram, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was about four months into my relationship with Sarah, and every fiber of my being wanted to be there. Still, I was nervous. Even though I was in love with a woman, who I’d be bringing with me, I STILL wondered if I was queer enough to belong. Identity stuff can cut really deep. Fortunately my excitement outweighed my trepidation, and Sarah was excited to join me. We signed up and headed to Oregon.

That weekend, I danced in ways I never had before. I dressed a little gayer. I laughed until my stomach hurt. There was no “normal” to measure myself against. No one was concerned with how queer you were, or how that queerness was expressed. Everyone belonged. Neurodivergence was normal and diversity was celebrated. People stimmed, fidgeted, and flowed in their own ways.

At the time, I was 90% sure it was the greatest thing I’d ever experienced. Before we even left camp, Sarah and I blocked off our calendars for the next one. And we spent the full 51 weeks looking forward to it.

This Year

Fast forward through a year of adventures, more queer spaces, and Sarah and I moving in together.

This year, I walked into Camp Pride already knowing I belonged. And it was undeniably the greatest experience of my life. By a factor of 10.

Thrilled to be at our second queer prom! Photographer: Mars Boutzoukas

Sarah and I had grown in our relationship, which gave us space to follow our own passions during the day and come together at night.

And I felt more like myself than I ever had before. I wore an edgy, slightly feminine suit to prom, and it felt so right. I joined a group that decided to learn the Vigilante Sh*t chair dance for the talent show, something I couldn’t have imagined myself doing even last year. I wouldn’t have let myself sign up for something I was convinced I’d be bad at. My movements weren’t the smoothest, but no one cared. My fellow dancers were happy to have me there, and when we swung our chairs around and stomped on them in unison the crowd went WILD. I could hardly believe how comfortable I was doing something miles out of my comfort zone.

The entire time at camp I felt ALIVE. Fulfilled. Incredibly free.

The effects lasted long after we left camp. Like the kind of shifts people describe after psychedelics: layers of old expectations peeled away, leaving me more myself than I’ve ever been.

Coming Home to Myself

When I left Camp Pride, the world felt different. I felt different. I’d never felt so aligned. Which left me with a hard truth: while I coach others to live their most aligned lives, I hadn’t been fully living mine.

I’d been holding back joy, creativity, and personal expression. I’d been saying no to experiences just because I wasn’t sure I’d be good at them. At Camp Pride, I said yes to what I wanted, instead of limiting myself to the things I thought I could excel at. And I realized that this was how I needed to keep living.

Why This Space Matters

About a month after this year’s Camp Pride, a close family member asked me why the LGBTQ+ community wants queer-only events and parades that make us stand out. In their mind, what we should really want is to fit in, to be accepted into mainstream society so no one thinks twice about our sexuality or gender identity. They thought we were almost there as a society, but that queer-only spaces held us back by making us stand out and by segregating us.

I get where he was coming from. He believes in equality, and thinks it’s important that queer people are treated just like anyone else. And he believes that most people do accept and treat queer people just like anyone else.

The truth is that in California, where we both live, most people do accept gay people. But acceptance isn’t the same thing as belonging.

I’ve written before about how I healed my struggles with belonging. And in many ways, I had. I felt connected, supported, and believed that I belonged. But I still didn’t, not truly, because I wasn’t fully me. The pressure from society was so subtle that I didn’t even know I felt it. I didn’t realize I was holding back until I went to Camp Pride, and suddenly I wasn’t.

A bunch of queer people looking super happy in front of a sign that says camp pride — 2025 Camp Pride “Sophomores” (2024 campers who made it back) before prom. Photographer: Mars Boutzoukas

I stumbled into being 100 percent myself without even trying. And I needed that queer, beautiful space to do it. Camp Pride, and other queer-only spaces, aren’t about standing out or segregating ourselves. They are about creating the conditions where no one has to shrink, translate, or filter who they are. They are about belonging in its fullest sense, the kind where you expand instead of contract, where nothing about you feels like too much.

That is what Camp Pride gave me. And that is why the world needs more spaces like it.

I left with hope.

Hope born from watching hundreds of queer, neurodivergent humans living embodied, joyful, impactful lives. Hope that the world can change when we create more spaces like this, where everyone gets to be fully themselves.

Camp Pride didn’t just give me a great weekend. It gave me a new world inside myself. I can’t unknow it. There is no going back. I am committed to living from it, and to sharing it, for as long as I’m here.

The Vow

After Camp Pride, I made my heart a promise: Alignment, joy, and embodiment are no longer luxuries. They are the foundation.

That vow is my compass now. I intend to live by it, knowing I might mess up. If you see that happen, call me out. I want to know when I’m off course so I can return back home.

Share and Explore

If this resonated with you, share it with someone who needs a little Camp Pride in their life. If you’re curious about experiencing it yourself, the next Camp Pride happens July 2–6, 2026.

Website: https://camp-pride.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/camppride_

Camp Pride 2025 group shot. Photo credit: Abigail Rodriguez

About Me

Hey, I’m Bara. Alongside adventures like Camp Pride, I’m a speaker and life engineer who helps overthinkers break free from self-sabotage and live more aligned, joyful, and impactful lives. My work blends personal experience, engineering mindset, and mental fitness tools to help people stop spinning in their heads and start moving forward in ways that actually feel good.

Learn more about my coaching: https://baraco.org/overcome-overthinking
Learn more about my speaking: https://baraco.org/bara-mann-speaker

Camp Pride: Finding Belonging, Joy, and a Whole New Layer of Myself