As a teenager in Bhopal, I didn’t even know the word queer. How could I have? The only visibility was trans folks were on the street or the cruel caricatures in Bollywood movies. The message of those films that I devoured was simple, and resounding: if you’re queer, people will laugh at you. Or your story will end in tragedy.   

Faced with this understanding of how the world works, here’s what I did. I conformed. Stayed in the closet. Hid my queerness. And acted “normal.” 

Then, came the early 2000s. Access to the internet at home brought movies from across the world on CDs and DVDs. That was my first exposure to queer cinema. And uff, it was depressing. Again, I was seeing stories of loss, rejection, death. I remember asking myself: wait, is this the only script we get? No joy? Only sorrow? 

But of course, now I know, that it’s not the whole truth. Queer life is layered with struggle for many things, yes. But it is also dazzling, fabulous, and full of joy. 

What’s the proof of that, you ask? It’s me — I’ve lived it. Here in no order of importance, are some instances where I felt unabashed, and unbridled joy at being queer.  

That first scarf I bought — a burst of euphoria I can still feel which I carried everywhere, like a secret amulet. 

That first cab ride as myself — an ordinary occurrence for most, but for me, a thing that felt like liberation. No questions, no explanations, just freedom. 

The GID letter that arrived a day after my birthday. The best gift ever. Because here was, a piece of paper that said: your life is valid. 

That first pill — my heart racing not from fear, but from joy. 

The mirror — finally catching glimpses of myself, and then, even more powerfully, seeing myself reflected in the eyes of people I love. 

And my name on my workstation and ID card — simple office stationery, yes, but for me, fireworks. A declaration that I belonged. 

These moments are my queer joy. Small, personal, unforgettable. 

Queer joy isn’t just about personal milestones. It’s also political. Because joy challenges the narrative that our lives are only defined by struggle.  

Joy is a refusal. A rebellion. To be joyful is to say: I am here, I am thriving, and I will not shrink myself to fit into your story of tragedy. 

Inclusion work often gets stuck on fixing problems. Policies, sensitization, benefits. All of it matters. But if the only lens we use is struggle, then we flatten queer life. We make it about survival. And survival is the baseline. 

The real aspiration? Flourishing. 

Workplaces that truly commit to inclusion create space for joy. Spaces where queer employees don’t just feel safe but feel celebrated. Where they can bring the scarf, the cab ride, the ID card moment – and so many other moments of queer joy — into their daily lives without hesitation. Where their milestones are recognized not as exceptions; but as part of the ordinary rhythm of work life. 

I think often about what joy does to culture. It energizes teams. It builds comfort. It sparks creativity. It breaks the pattern of hiding and silence that drains so much energy.  

In my own life, joy has never made me smaller, it has made me bolder. 

So, when I talk about queer joy today, I’m not talking about rainbow cakes in June or performative celebrations. I’m talking about the kind of joy that comes from being fully seen. The kind that signals to every queer person: your life here will not be reduced to struggle. It will also hold delight, pride, and possibility. 

Queer joy is real. It is ordinary. It is contagious.  

And it belongs at work as much as anywhere else.