As June rolls around every year, I’m filled with a feeling of dread. Pride season is upon us, and as a gay woman, I’m asked on average 60 times a week in the lead up if I’m looking forward to celebrating. Patiently, I explain to a series of people that I’ve never been to Pride, despite living in London for eight years and being “out” for half of them. Then, they look at me like I’ve strangled their kitten.

I’ve always felt that Pride is a bit like a wedding – it’s nice to have, but not entirely necessary. There are other ways to demonstrate your love, commitment and appreciation; I internally celebrate my ability to live freely as a gay woman every single day and I never take for granted that people have fought for me to be able to live openly with my girlfriend, most of the time without prejudice.

And then there’s the fact that I just don't really feel like dragging my (predominantly straight) friends out on to the streets of London once a year to congratulate me on being gay. I know it's not all about me – I get that it's about the wider community – but what I like the most about my friends is that my sexuality is not part of our relationship. I'd feel like a bit of fraud if I decided to make it A Thing every June.

All of that said, my disassociation with the LGBT community came to a swift end when on the 12th of June 2016, a gunman killed 49 people at a nightclub in Orlando. In the face of this act of hate, it became obvious to me that we need to stand together in solidarity to show that we will not be afraid. And so, armed with several cans of gin and tonic, my girlfriend and a couple of good friends, I hesitantly made my way to Soho on Saturday to join in London’s Pride celebrations for the first time.