There comes a time in every relationship when you realize that things aren’t mutual like you once believed. That time has come.
For too long, I and so many others have watched well-intentioned allies show up while the cameras are on, the celebrations are loud, and when solidarity is easy.
But when real action is needed, when accountability is demanded, when harm must be addressed, and when comfort must be set aside—many of those same voices fall silent.
Two recent betrayals in our community highlight the urgent need to rethink what allyship truly means:
The Human Rights Campaign (HRC) is laying off of 20% of its staff, disproportionately affecting Black and Brown trans employees. Meanwhile, the founder of Queering the Binary Foundation has embezzled funds and hoarded donations meant for the very people they claim to serve.
If we truly care about justice, we must confront these failures—not with passive disappointment, but with a commitment to do better.
HRC has long positioned itself as the leading force in LGBTQIA+ advocacy, yet time and again, its priorities have reflected the interests of our nation’s white, cisgender leadership rather than the most marginalized members of our community.
The recent layoffs are not just numbers on a spreadsheet; they are a reflection of whose labor is deemed expendable when budgets tighten. The erasure of Black and Brown trans voices from spaces of is a recurring pattern, and cannot be ignored or excused.
If an organization’s vision for equality does not include the protection and empowerment of those most at risk, then what kind of equality is it truly fighting for?
In addition, the harm caused by Queering the Binary’s founder is deeply personal. Stealing from the very people you claim to uplift is not just financial misconduct—it is a betrayal of trust and a fundamental violation of community care.
The donations withheld, the funds misused, and the opportunities denied—each represents a moment of need that was ignored. And that harm cannot be undone with an apology alone.
Allyship is not a title, and cannot be earned through kind words or symbolic gestures alone. It is a continuous practice, one that demands a willingness to act even when it is inconvenient, when it requires self-reflection, and when it means holding people and institutions accountable.
If you call yourself an ally, I ask you: What does your allyship look like when no one is watching?
● Are you questioning where your donations are going? Are you supporting Black and Brown trans-led organizations that are transparent and community-driven?
● Are you holding nonprofits accountable for their decisions, even when they have a long history of “good work”?
● Are you speaking up when harm is done, or are you allowing silence to protect the status quo?
These moments define the difference between performative support and real, meaningful solidarity.
I am not writing this to shame, but to challenge. I believe we are capable of more—of deeper accountability, of radical honesty, and of a genuine commitment to justice.
The failures we are witnessing do not mean that advocacy itself is broken, but they do reveal where we must shift our focus: toward the people most impacted, toward grassroots leadership, and toward collective action that is not driven by prestige or power, but by genuine care.
This is not the end of the fight. It is a turning point. Performative allyship will not carry us forward. Only real, sustained, and courageous solidarity will.
So, dear performative allies, I’m breaking up with you—not out of anger, but out of hope. Hope that you will step up, take action, and prove your commitment not just in words, but in the work that lies ahead.
Because if we truly believe in justice, we cannot accept anything less.