Anthony (left) and his partner, Coulter
I like holidays as much as the next person, but Pride Month is my favorite. Every year as June rolls around, I get excited for our moment. And why wouldn’t I? First, we get an entire month of endless ways to celebrate, from big and splashy marches to small block parties to welcoming and celebratory rainbows on every corner. We also get a chance to come together as a community: a small (but loud!), oppressed group of resilient humans that had to fight hard for every right and recognition we have.
But this Pride hits differently. Three months ago, my boyfriend and partner, Coulter, died suddenly and unexpectedly by suicide. I am deep in grief. When the rainbow flags went up across NYC, their bright colors felt dimmer to me. I’m grappling with what my life has now become – emptier, lonelier, and forever changed.
Coulter was a beautiful soul, a chatterbox, a kind person, and, most importantly, my biggest champion. We loved each other with fierce pride and passion. We supported each other, we honored each other, and we knew that down the line, we’d choose to take advantage of the right to equal marriage that our community fought so passionately for.
Grief is an invisible companion—for many, and for me. Beyond the daily work of holding it together, there are quiet frictions that wear me down. I give the same practiced answer to “How are you?” I zone out mid-conversation when a memory crashes in. I cry in line at CVS when “Can’t Fight the Moonlight” plays on the speakers. I fake a smile when someone makes a joke about suicide, or when I scroll past a dumb meme I would’ve sent to Coulter. Most of this goes unseen, but I still feel the pressure to smooth it over—for others’ comfort, not mine. The empath in me is exhausted, always working overtime.
These daily little things add up to making me want to shrink my grief to make it easier for the rest of the world to handle. In some ways, it reminds me of what I did when I was younger and in the closet. I made pieces of myself smaller so the rest of the world can digest and understand me. I hid parts of myself to make things nice. I was stuck in my pain and suffering to make others comfortable.
These daily little things add up to making me want to shrink my grief to make it easier for the rest of the world to handle. In some ways, it reminds me of what I did when I was younger and in the closet. I made pieces of myself smaller so the rest of the world can digest and understand me.
I haven’t been quiet or shy about my sexuality in decades. I fight to be open and proud about who I am, and I won’t make any part of myself small. Our generation stands on the shoulders of the ancestors who did have to grieve in private. Historical pictures of “two close friends” dating as far back as ancient Egypt have been misunderstood by straight historians. An entire generation of men was lost in the AIDS crisis, and so many of their lovers, partners, and friends had to quietly mourn and hide their heartbreak from the rest of the world.
Pride Month has reminded me that I can’t hide who I am or who I love–-and that I won’t hide my grief, either. Our community is built on a bedrock of resiliency. We get knocked down, and we throw bricks back. This year, I am channeling that resiliency hard as I mourn out loud.
This Pride Month, I’m learning that being proud also means being unafraid to show the love and loss that shaped me—and to let others see the whole, tender truth of who I am. And that’s someone who is proud of Coulter, proud of the life we built. proud of the love we shared. He made me a better human, and his life mattered. In the spirit of pride this year, I will continue to grieve openly, mourn for the man I lost, and face the reality that his death has left behind.
If you’re grieving someone, I hope you grieve out loud with me. And if you know someone in the throes of grief, mourn with them in whichever way they might need. Ask them stories about the person they lost. Celebrate their life. And honor their story.
Anthony Mercurio is a political strategist, fundraiser, and LGBTQ+ advocate based in New York, NY. He lost his partner to suicide in March, 2025.
