IDAHOBIT 2025: We’ve Come So Far — But Let’s Not Pretend It’s Enough
Every year on May 17, we mark IDAHOBIT — the International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia, Interphobia and Transphobia. It’s a day that holds space for two things that can sometimes feel hard to carry at once: progress and pain.
I’ve been openly gay for most of my adult life, but it took years before I felt comfortable saying that out loud in a boardroom or a staffroom. And even now, with two hospital roles and a startup aimed at tackling loneliness in the LGBTQIA+ community, I sometimes still flinch at the idea of being “too much” in the wrong space — too visible, too vulnerable, too vocal.
But visibility isn’t optional when so many of our people remain unseen.
The World Is Getting Louder — and Crueller
Let’s start with the obvious: the global picture is bleak. From anti-trans legislation in the United States, to rising hate crime across the UK, to the tightening grip of authoritarianism in countries where being LGBTQIA+ can still land you in prison or worse — we are watching hard-won rights be dismantled. And let’s be honest: much of it is happening with the encouragement of populist politics and misinformation campaigns that cast queer people as dangerous, deviant, or disposable.
In the face of that, IDAHOBIT can’t be a feel-good day. It has to be a call to action.
Because this isn't about politics in the abstract. It's about the teenager in regional Queensland wondering if they’re broken. It’s about the trans nurse afraid to update their staff badge. It’s about the gay father who still hesitates before putting his partner’s name down on a school form. And it’s about all the quiet compromises people make every day just to feel safe in public — or even just in their own skin.
Australia Is Doing Better — But Not Everywhere, Not for Everyone
The thing that gives me hope — and what I’ve seen firsthand through my work — is that Australia is doing better. Not perfectly, but meaningfully.
In my role at Hobart Private and Northern Beaches Hospital, I’ve watched our People & Culture and Diversity & Inclusion efforts evolve from compliance-driven checklists to genuine conversations about how we support our teams. There’s been more effort made to listen, to learn, and to stand alongside LGBTQIA+ staff in visible ways. And it’s not just tokenistic — it’s built into onboarding, policies, training, and staff development. That matters.
But even here, in a place that feels safer than most, we’re not immune to silence. I still speak to colleagues who aren’t out at work. I still hear jokes that aren’t funny. I still see the hesitation in someone’s eyes when diversity is raised at the leadership table — not because they disagree, but because they don’t want to be the one to “get political.” But if the right to exist with dignity is considered political, then silence becomes complicity.
Visibility Without Depth Is a Lie
Let’s talk about the rainbow-washing that happens this time of year — the corporate posts, the themed cupcakes, the vague slogans. Visibility is important, but without action and reflection, it becomes decoration. And sometimes, it even becomes a shield that lets organisations off the hook for deeper, structural work.
Being queer at work still often means navigating systems that were not built with us in mind. Health systems, in particular, have a lot to answer for. Whether it’s a lack of inclusive language on patient forms, an absence of tailored mental health supports, or the ongoing erasure of trans and non-binary identities in clinical settings — it’s not enough to say we’re inclusive. We have to design for inclusion. We have to fund it. Train for it. Audit it. And be held accountable for it.
That’s part of why I became a MindOUT Champion with LGBTIQ+ Health Australia — because I saw the gaps. The well-meaning policies that never made it into practice. The posters that were never backed up with psychological safety. The assumptions that “diversity” meant everyone felt welcome, when in reality it just meant no one had said anything outright cruel… yet.
Loneliness Is the Real Epidemic No One Talks About
When I launched Get Out — a platform designed to help LGBTQIA+ people form meaningful offline connections — I wasn’t just reacting to dating app fatigue. I was responding to something deeper: a loneliness crisis that’s quietly devastating our community.
We talk about Pride and progress, but beneath that, many queer people — especially those outside major cities — are disconnected. Disconnected from community, from culture, from health services, and sometimes even from themselves. The stats on mental health, substance misuse, and suicide in our community aren’t just tragic — they’re urgent.
And loneliness doesn’t always look like isolation. Sometimes it looks like being surrounded by people but not seen. Not understood. Not supported in the ways that matter.
Get Out was born from a belief that connection is preventative care. That group fitness classes, shared interests, and community storytelling can build the kind of belonging that makes people stay. Stay in their town. Stay in their recovery. Stay alive.
We can’t wait until people are in crisis to offer them community. By then it’s too late.
What We Need More Of in Healthcare — and Beyond
If there’s one sector where IDAHOBIT should matter most, it’s healthcare. Because LGBTQIA+ people still experience medical trauma, still get misgendered in waiting rooms, still delay care because they don’t trust the system to respect them.
We need:
Training that goes beyond definitions and actually addresses bias and trauma-informed care.
Leadership that names inclusion as a strategic priority, not just a nice-to-have.
Recruitment pipelines that actively seek to diversify our clinical and executive teams.
Data collection that respects and reflects the true spectrum of identities and experiences.
Safe reporting mechanisms when things go wrong — and they still do.
And beyond the hospital walls, we need community-led initiatives that aren’t reactive but proactive. That meet people where they are — not where we think they should be.
So What Does IDAHOBIT Mean to Me?
It means not letting my fear — for our world, our safety, or our future — override my responsibility to show up. It means continuing to build a platform that helps people connect before they crumble. It means telling my story even when it’s uncomfortable. It means reminding leaders that diversity without psychological safety is theatre. It means calling out injustice even when it’s subtle. And it means remembering that every safe space started with someone brave enough to demand it.
I’m lucky. I’ve survived the worst parts of my story. But many don’t. That’s the reality. So IDAHOBIT can’t just be a flag or a themed lunch. It has to be a commitment — renewed every year — to doing better.
For those who’ve been silenced. For those who’ve been harmed. For those still trying to find their people.
We’ve come far. But let’s not pretend it’s far enough.
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Brodie West is the Founder of Get Out, a MindOUT Champion with LGBTIQ+ Health Australia, and the Communications and Campaigns Manager at Hobart Private and Northern Beaches Hospitals. He is passionate about proactive mental health, queer visibility, and building platforms that create real connection.