There are days in our house when the soundtrack is laughter, snack wrappers crinkling, and two little voices shouting “Mom!” and “Mami!” from opposite ends of the hallway.
And then there are days when it’s, “Why is there slime on the ceiling?” and “Who forgot to sign the permission slip?”
That’s life in our two-mom household with two kids home. It’s loud. It’s layered. It’s beautiful chaos.
Because I’m not just a mom. I’m a queer Latina. I’m an immigrant. I’m the Executive Director of Come Out With Pride.
Right now, I live at these intersections — queer, Latina, immigrant — and my Pride is deeply intersectional. These identities are not abstract; they are personal, shaping every choice I make as a mom and as a community leader.
My children are old enough to overhear headlines. They hear conversations about immigration raids. They ask why some leaders speak harshly about queer and trans people. They’ve heard the word “ICE.” They know families who are scared.
And the truth is — so am I.
Even though I was naturalized, I carry a quiet worry in the back of my mind. Enforcement escalates, rhetoric grows sharper and it’s a clear attack on people of color. It’s a reminder that some people still see us as disposable.
Those are real conversations in our house.
We talk about dignity. Humanity. How no one deserves to live in fear because of who they are, who they love or where they’re from. We talk about how queer and trans immigrants face layered vulnerability — navigating xenophobia and anti-LGBTQIA+ hostility at the same time.
As a mother, I want to shield my children from that weight.
As a community leader, I know we can’t afford silence.
Visibility matters — not as a buzzword, but as survival.
When my kids watched Bad Bunny during this year’s Super Bowl halftime show, they weren’t just dancing around. They were seeing a reflection of their culture. A reflection of me. Hispanic/Latin pride on one of the biggest stages in the world. Representation inspires hope in ways that are hard to explain but impossible to ignore.
That’s why the work we do at Come Out With Pride matters so deeply.
This spring, we will gather for Trans Day of Visibility — not just to celebrate, but to affirm that trans and non-binary people belong and will not be erased. Our Trans & Non-Binary Task Force helps lead this work with intention and care, ensuring visibility is backed by community support.
We are already preparing for 2026 Pride Prom — dancing through the decades after welcoming more than 1,000 attendees last year. Pride Prom is joy. It’s chosen family. It’s a reminder that celebration itself can be queer resistance.
And we continue expanding our Love & Liberation: Pride Juneteenth Celebration alongside our Colors of Courage Collective — centering Black queer voices and honoring the truth that racial justice and LGBTQ+ justice are inseparable. Liberation is interconnected. It always has been.
None of this happens alone.
My board of directors shows up relentlessly. Our Trans & Non-Binary Task Force leads with lived expertise. Our Colors of Courage Collective ensures equity isn’t an afterthought but a foundation. Volunteers give their time and talent. Community members give their trust.
As a tiny but mighty nonprofit, we are still here — even as other events cancel under pressure. We understand the climate. We feel it too. But shrinking is not an option when our community needs space to gather, breathe and belong.
At home, after the kids are asleep, I sometimes sit quietly and feel the weight of it all. Parenting is already an act of faith.
Leading while personally feeling targeted adds another layer.
But then I think about what my children are learning.
They are watching two moms share responsibility and partnership. They are watching their immigrant, queer Latina mom refuse to disappear. They are seeing that when policies harm our neighbors, we don’t retreat — we organize. We advocate.
We celebrate. We keep showing up!
They are learning that joy and resistance can coexist.
Our house isn’t perfect. The laundry still piles up. The dishwasher still mysteriously never empties itself. One child is always hungry five minutes after dinner; the other insists they’re not tired while falling asleep mid-sentence.
But our home is rooted in steady, stubborn love.
And so is our community.
We are not defined by political attacks. We are not defined by fear-based rhetoric. We are defined by how we protect one another. By how we amplify voices that have been pushed to the margins. By how we continue building spaces where Black, immigrant, trans, queer and questioning families see themselves reflected — not erased.
Being a two-mom family means our kids grow up seeing resilience modeled daily.
Being a queer Latina immigrant leading a Pride organization means I carry both pride and pressure.
But despite the noise, despite the fear, despite the very real concerns — we are still here.
Still organizing.
Still celebrating.
Still visible.
And in our home — amid glitter, homework and endless “Mom!” and “Mami!” calls — we are raising children who know that love is powerful, representation is necessary and hope is worth fighting for.
And that, especially right now, feels extraordinary.
Tatiana Quiroga is the executive director for Come Out With Pride. She is a proud mother, wife and LGBTQ+ advocate in Central Florida.
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