Why the Visibility of Queerness Still Needs Recognition

Last week, Luka and I appeared on a list that many would probably see as a pat on the back, a pleasant career moment, a “how lovely, congratulations” occasion — a brief dopamine hit on someone’s LinkedIn feed. And yes, of course it feels good to be selected for the PROUT Nominees List, to be visible, to be recognised.

But at the same time, there was this quiet, persistent feeling that couldn’t be drowned out by applause: Why do we actually still need something like this? Why is queer visibility still headline-worthy in 2025?

Why the Visibility of Queerness Still Needs Recognition – and Why That’s Not a Luxury

If I’m honest: I’m not actually that keen on lists, awards, or visibility campaigns. I dream of a world in which they are unnecessary — a world where queerness doesn’t need to be honoured because it is already taken for granted. A world in which my sexual identity doesn’t need to be explained, justified, or defended. But that is not the world we live in.

The world we live in demands a great deal of explanation from queer people. And that is precisely why we still need these recognitions — not because we love visibility, but because invisibility is real. Because it shapes our lives, and because it limits us. And yet, this invisibility is so difficult to grasp. What does it actually mean in concrete terms, and where does it lead?

Queerness Is Not “an Issue for a Small Few” – Even If Many People Believe It Is

What never ceases to astonish me — and hurt me, if I’m honest — is how many people in my closest circles still believe that “this topic” (sexual identity) concerns only a small, marginalised group. As if it were some niche interest, a tiny fraction of society that just needs a bit of special treatment, while everyone else remains “normal” and unaffected. But that is factually untrue.

Sexual orientation concerns everyone. Every single person locates themselves, consciously or not, within categories, seeks belonging, rejects labels and yet is constantly confronted with them. You can resist labels as much as you like — they will still find you. In forms. In conversations. In assumptions. In jokes. In glances.

And the social category of gender affects every single person as well. Everyone is assigned a gender — often before birth, sometimes with the first glance at an ultrasound image, and at the latest with the first official entry into a system. There is no way around it, even if you later locate yourself differently. The system thinks in gender, organises by it, evaluates through it, and sanctions according to it.

Anti-Queer Hostility Disguised as Concern

The only difference is this: for queer people, that friction is often more painful, more exhausting, more visible — because the categories that feel so comfortable for the majority simply don’t always fit. Or don’t fit at all. Or feel like a foreign body imposed from the outside. What many people fail to see is how deeply ingrained these biases are, not only in our systems but also in relationships that should feel safe. Whether at work or in our private lives, most queer people are repeatedly met with assumptions that mark them as “different.”

When people hear queerphobia, they imagine hateful comments or open rejection of same-sex love. And yes — that exists. But scepticism towards queerness shows up in many other ways. I am constantly taken aback by how much biphobia exists in my closest environment — not overtly aggressive, but quiet, well-intentioned, disguised as concern, as care, as interest.

“But what are you really?” or “What else do you still need to try out?” What they mean is: lesbian or straight. Binary. 1 or 0. Either-or. No in-betweens. No ambivalence. No fluidity. No complexity.

Where Does This Need for Definitive Answers Even Come From?

This myth that bisexuality is merely a phase — a waiting room on the way to one’s “real” truth — is so old, so persistent, and so exhausting that sometimes I no longer have the energy to correct it. This constant desire for a clear box, a final label, a decision that makes things easier for everyone else but narrower for me. None of this is new; plenty has been written about it — and yet these social analyses and commentaries so often remain within our own communities, within gender studies departments, within queer bookshops.

Invisibility also means a lack of representation. Even though bisexual people make up the largest share of the LGBTQIA+ community, they are frequently made invisible or confronted with stereotypes. This is true both within queer spaces and outside of them. A look at pop culture — at well-known Hollywood films, for example — makes this invisibility starkly visible. Gay men and lesbian women do appear, often through stereotypical portrayals: the gay best friend, usually framed with exaggerated femininity; the lesbian feminist, depicted through equally clichéd markers. What these stereotypes do to us — and why they tend to strip gay men of masculinity and lesbian women of femininity — is worth its own blog post. But that’s not my point here: bisexual people rarely, if ever, appear at all.

Our society loves to orient itself through social categories, neat boxes into which we can sort one another. Bisexual people complicate this sorting; they are neither heterosexual nor homosexual. Bi-erasure describes the phenomenon whereby bisexuality is denied or dismissed as a temporary phase for precisely this reason. This mechanism of invisibility means that bisexual people are often not fully accepted or taken seriously — neither in heteronormative circles nor within queer communities.

Reckless Theories and Imaginative Explanations

In the workplace, this invisibility becomes especially clear. It’s not unusual for bisexual employees to find that their sexual orientation is perceived as confusing — particularly if they have been in relationships with people of different genders in the past. There is a frequent expectation that one should slot neatly into either “straight” or “gay”. These constant expectations mean that many bisexual people have to come out repeatedly or avoid coming out altogether for fear of misunderstandings.

In fact, bisexual people are far less likely to be out at work than their gay or lesbian colleagues. And I understand why. I, too, am repeatedly confronted with reckless theories about me and my queerness. The idea that I somehow “became queer” because something happened to me — as if my identity were the result of trauma, a mistake, a rupture. As if being queer were by definition a deviation from some “original” state. And honestly? Sometimes I wish I could return the question. Because no one asks the heterosexual husband with two children: Are you straight because you had a bad homosexual experience?

No one ever thinks to pathologise heterosexuality. No one asks straight people about the origin of their orientation. No one builds elaborate psychological theories to make it make sense. But when it comes to queer people, everything suddenly requires explanation. As though we must provide a reason, a story, a trigger. This kind of questioning is not curiosity. It is control — a way of shoring up one’s own worldview.

Who Is Actually Making Whose Life Complicated Here?

A sentence that hits me particularly hard is: “You’re making life unnecessarily complicated for yourself.” Said by people who believe they’re protecting me. People who think that if I just categorised less, questioned less, resisted less — everything would be easier. But in truth, it is often precisely these people who are overwhelmed by what my existence triggers in them: that they suddenly have to grapple with trans identities, with non-binarity, with desires that don’t fit into 0 and 1. What they really mean is not that my life is complicated — but that theirs becomes complicated. That my relationships force them to question their sense of order. That my desires disrupt their neatly arranged boxes. They think I should stop dating queer people so my life would be simpler. But what they are actually saying is: If you stopped dating queer people, my life would be easier.

And yes: some things are complicated. Truly. Navigating a system that obsessively thinks in 0 and 1, for example. In man or woman. In straight or gay. In either-or. In normal or other.But I am not making my life complicated. The system is complicated. What hurts is not my queerness. What hurts is rubbing up against a world that wants to press me into a box so it can stop feeling uncomfortable.

In my private life, I already feel how exhausting this can be. How quickly it wears you down. How it leads to withdrawal. To that quiet desire to retreat into spaces where I don’t have to explain myself, where nothing needs translating, where my desire, my relationships, my language are not turned into a topic every single time. Queer spaces as places to breathe — not as political statements, but as a necessity.

The Workplace as a Site of Emotional Exhaustion

And honestly: I can hardly imagine what it must feel like to work in environments where this erasure doesn’t just happen in private, but every single day. I am lucky. My job allows me to speak about exactly these issues. I get paid to have difficult conversations, to reveal parts of my identity, to hold tension. Many others perform this emotional labour every day simply to get by. Without a platform, without a budget, without a protected space.

And that is precisely why we need recognitions like PROUT. Not because we want attention. Not because we think we’re better than others. Not because we need a “queer elite”. But because visibility is a counterweight. Against invisibility. Against trivialisation. Against the “This isn’t really an issue anymore” narrative. Against the “You have marriage equality now, what more do you want?” refrain. Against “Do you have to make such a big deal out of it?”Yes. We do. And that is exactly why lists like this matter.

Because every time Luka and I appear on such a list, somewhere there is a person thinking, perhaps for the first time: Maybe I’m not alone. Maybe there is a place for people like me. Maybe I don’t have to shrink myself to fit. And maybe it also prompts those who believe they are “not affected” to realise: perhaps this does concern me after all. Because what is so rarely considered is this: thinking in 0 and 1 produces a massive confirmation bias. People only see what fits their grid — and often have no idea how frequently they are wrong.

Visibility Is Not an Ego Trip. It Is a Responsibility.

I’ve experienced this more times than I can count, especially in professional settings: when I mention an ex, people almost always assume he was a cis man. When someone is in a relationship with a man or a woman, many immediately believe they also know that person’s sexual orientation. But the truth is: you almost never know as much as you think you do. You don’t know whether someone is bisexual and currently in a relationship that reads as heterosexual or queer. You don’t know whether the person they mention is cis or trans. And because of that, you also don’t know how many people in your immediate work environment are actually affected by this 0-and-1 thinking, by this narrowness, by this need to categorise everything.

And this is precisely what, for me, touches the core of the PROUT AT WORK Foundation’s mission: showcasing and recognising people who “just do their job” — and don’t hide their queerness while doing it. Not as a performance, but as a reality. And yes, even today, that is enough to cause friction. It’s enough to unsettle people. It’s enough to make you political — and sometimes, it’s enough to be recognised for it.

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Why visibility for queerness still needs recognition and awards should be clear by now. If you're interested in finally seeing queer people and their work — for example, to reach out and invite them as experts for talks or other formats — you can take a look here: proutperformer.de