Why queer friendships are the real love stories

Growing up LGBTQIA+ can mean finding your people a little later, but when you do, it’s electric. Here’s why queer friendship is the glue, the glitter, and the best stuff.

This week I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship. Not the kind you form because you happen to sit next to someone in Year 9 Maths, or because your dogs get walked at the same time in the park, but the real kind. The "you know what I mean before I say it", "you’ve seen me cry to Robyn twice this month", "I send you a screenshot of every man I match with" kind.

Queer friendship. Chosen family. The proper, messy, magical stuff.

Growing up queer means you often go through your early life with half your personality behind glass. You learn to play a role, funny, polite, agreeable, maybe even popular, but never quite you. You’re careful with your words. You laugh at the wrong jokes. You overthink everything because you’re scared the real you might slip out when no one’s ready. And the problem is, when you’re hiding even from yourself, it’s hard to connect with other people properly. They like the mask, but not the person behind it.

So many of us didn’t get to have the full teen experience. The sleepovers where you whisper about you fancy. The instant best friend you make in the girls’ toilets at school because you both like the same boyband (or in my case, the same boy). Our friendships were often polite but hollow, friendly but not intimate. We didn’t get to say “this is who I am” and be held in it.

And then, somewhere along the way, that changes. You come out. Or you edge out. Or you meet someone who sees the real you and doesn’t flinch. And suddenly it’s like: oh. This is what friendship feels like when you’re not performing through it.

My queer friendships didn’t just happen overnight. They arrived in bursts, one person here, a new mate at work there, a chaotic night out that ends with your new best friend sobbing on the pavement while you both agree Dua Lipa is the voice of your generation. Over time, these people became more than just friends. They become your lifeline.

There’s something about queer friendship that just goes deeper, faster. We skip the small talk. We go from “hi, what do you do?” to “I haven’t felt safe in my body since I was ten” in two espresso martinis. And no one even blinks. You know you’re in a queer friendship when your group chat is half memes, half emotional check-ins, and someone’s always debriefing a situationship that’s lasted for two weeks but feels like a Greek tragedy.

Honestly, the group chat? It’s therapy. It’s religion. It’s an oracle. Where else can you go to dissect a text message for meaning, pick an outfit by sending blurry mirror selfies, and get told, gently, that your ex was in fact not deep, just emotionally unavailable and owned too many rings?

The love in queer friendship isn’t a placeholder for romance. It is romance. It’s showing up with Lucozade and snacks when your mate’s hungover and heartbroken. It’s booking train tickets for Pride six months in advance because the group needs to be together. It’s turning up for each other at 4am and pretending it’s not even a big deal. It’s “I’ve got you” in fifty different languages. It’s saying, “You’re not too much. You’re just right.”

When people say “chosen family,” it can sound like a slogan. But the truth is, sometimes your queer friends do raise you again in adulthood. They show you what love can look like when it’s soft, funny, fierce, and entirely free of expectation. They give you a home in the world. They take the lonely, closeted, guarded kid you used to be, and say, “We see you now. And we like you.”

The older I get, the more I realise: these friendships are the love stories. These are the people who will be dancing beside me at weddings, telling inappropriate jokes at my funeral, and texting me when they see someone who looks like my ex (but fitter). We don’t just share time together. We build a world inside our bond. A queer world. One where nothing feels too weird, or too intense, or too early to say out loud.

So, this is my love letter to the people who know my stories before I’ve told them. To the ones who hold me up and roast me in equal measure. To the ones who make being queer not just something I am, but something I’m glad to be.

If you’ve got a friend like that, text them now. Tell them they’re iconic. And if you haven’t found your people yet - hold on. They’re coming. And when they do, you’ll wonder how you ever lived without them.

💌 I’d love to hear from you—who’s your queer ride-or-die? Got a friendship origin story worth sharing? Hit reply or leave a comment. Let’s celebrate the friendships that saw us, held us, and made us laugh when we needed it most.