The LGBTQ community has long been defined by its fierce loyalty to the underdog. We rally for the kid bullied at school, the artist rejected by the mainstream, the candidate counted out before the race even begins. We know what it feels like to be dismissed, silenced, underestimated — and that shared memory has fueled decades of activism, creativity, and cultural change. It is one of our greatest strengths.
But there is a quieter, more uncomfortable question we rarely ask out loud: What happens when one of us actually reaches the top?
We celebrate struggle. We champion survival. Yet success — real, undeniable success — often makes us uneasy. When an LGBTQ individual becomes powerful, wealthy, influential, or culturally dominant, the applause can thin out. The same community that once shouted encouragement may turn skeptical, distant, or even hostile. Suddenly, that person is “too corporate,” “too mainstream,” “not radical enough,” or worse — accused of forgetting where they came from.
This is not unique to us, but it hits differently here. Our history is rooted in exclusion, so we instinctively distrust power. We fear that proximity to influence means compromise, that success must come at the expense of authenticity. And sometimes, yes, that fear is justified. But too often, we apply it indiscriminately — punishing achievement simply because it looks unfamiliar.
Why is it easier to fund the rise than to sustain the summit?
If we only support LGBTQ leaders while they are climbing, but abandon them once they arrive, we create a ceiling of our own making. We inadvertently send a message to the next generation: Dream big — but not too big. Be visible — but not powerful. Win — but don’t win too much.
That contradiction is dangerous. Representation does not stop at visibility; it must extend to ownership, leadership, and decision-making. True equality means having LGBTQ voices not just at the margins, but in boardrooms, studios, courtrooms, and seats of power — without requiring them to apologize for being there.
Supporting each other at the top does not mean blind loyalty or silence in the face of wrongdoing. Accountability matters. Values matter. But there is a difference between accountability and resentment, between principled critique and discomfort with success itself.
The next phase of LGBTQ progress may depend on whether we can mature as a community — whether we can cheer not only for those fighting to be seen, but also for those who have made it and are willing to hold the door open behind them.
The question isn’t whether we love our underdogs. We do.
The real question is whether we are ready to love our winners, too.
Bobby Blair is an LGBTQ media pioneer and leader known for his philanthropic work on behalf of the LGBTQ+ community. A Florida native, he lives in Fort Lauderdale with his longtime partner, Brian Neal. Blair was inducted into the GLBT Hall of Fame in 2015.
