LGBTQ+ allyship – From a senior associate’s simple kindness to a radio host asking about a wife, LGBTQ+ professionals describe allyship as something that often happens offstage: in small choices that make people feel safe enough to tell the truth—then create better stories.
The first time Ashlee Difuntorum remembers feeling safe at work didn’t come with a speech. Years ago, as a first-year associate secretly dating a woman, she panicked when her girlfriend sent flowers to her office. What could anyone ask? Who were they from?
A senior associate noticed the flowers and offered just one line: “Those are beautiful.” No questions, no pressure—only warmth. Difuntorum says that moment has stayed with her ever since, especially when she meets with creative teams as an entertainment litigator.
So for Pride Month. Difuntorum—also a former outside pro bono counsel to GLAAD and a member of the LGBTQ+ community—asked LGBTQ+ women and non-binary professionals across the industry to share what allyship has looked like in real. human moments. The answers that came back weren’t grand announcements. They were the kind of behind-the-scenes decisions that shape whether someone feels safe enough to show up as themselves.
Michelle (Michi) Raymond. artist and co-founder at LAVICHI Records. recalled a moment from 2008 when she was a lesbian singer-songwriter trying to find her place in the music scene. Booked to open for a gay male headliner. she was moved to perform later after the headliner asked organizers to switch the lineup. He explained that queer women deserved more visibility in music—seven years before marriage equality became law across the United States. when seeing openly LGBTQ+ artists succeed still felt rare to Raymond. She says the act didn’t just give her stage time. It taught her that success didn’t have to be a competition.
Tennessee Martin. a writer. producer and development executive at Legendary Entertainment. described arriving in Los Angeles determined to make “a good impression.” Wearing the only dress she owned. Martin met a well-known actress in Beverly Hills. She hired Martin as an assistant after they connected immediately. Later, when the actress asked whether Martin was dating anyone, Martin weighed telling the truth. There was a 50-year age gap, and Martin wasn’t sure how the actress felt about queer people. She finally said she was a lesbian—and she “hated wearing dresses.” The actress responded by saying most of her favorite people were gay and that Martin should dress however she wanted. Martin says she never wore a dress again, and the friendship lasted for years afterward. Martin also identified the actress as Dawn Wells, who played Maryann from “Gilligan’s Island.”.
For others, allyship came through language and attention—how questions are asked, and what details get treated with respect.
Ada Rannels. a programming manager at VidCon. stopped sharing her engagement because so many people’s first question wasn’t about her. They asked. “Who’s the lucky guy?” or “So how does that work?” Rannels says it made her feel awful. so she kept quiet. Then VidCon moved into the office space, and when she introduced herself, someone noticed her ring. Rannels said yes. They were the only person to ask what she wanted to be asked: “What’s the person’s name?” She says that small difference made her feel seen and safe—and she says she knew right then she wanted to work with them. She’s now going into her second year as programming manager for VidCon.
Amber Kronquist. former SVP of Business Affairs at Super Deluxe. remembered a different kind of welcome: the first week of her first job at the Century City office of a national law firm. As a first-year associate, she told colleagues she planned to propose to her then-girlfriend over the weekend. The following week. she found balloons waiting for her. along with a card signed by fellow first-years and colleagues throughout the office. Kronquist says the gesture was small to the people who organized it—but incredibly meaningful to her. making her feel seen. valued and welcomed exactly as she was.
Not every allyship story starts with career support. Some begin with personal safety.
Jennifer Klear, an entertainment and media attorney and former VP of legal affairs at Talk WW Production, Inc. dba “Sherri” and “The Wendy Williams Show. ” said coming out at work felt like a bombshell after she discovered her bisexuality later in life. Fear consumed her. To unburden herself, she confided in an openly gay male colleague, crying in his office as she told him. Klear says he met her with a warm hug, love and support. After that, she opened up to a female executive. She braced for distance. but the executive shared she was bisexual too—bringing Klear “instant relief and a sudden sense of community.” Klear then told a colleague from a conservative culture. To her relief. that colleague offered full support. and Klear says her workplace had always been a safe space. waiting for her to discover it.
Quinn Kirby. marketing manager at Mattress Factory Contemporary Art Museum. described how even the choice of where someone sits in a room can matter. Kirby said they used to work at a chamber of commerce and faced friends questioning why they’d choose a space where they were the first non-binary person many people had met and were likely to be misgendered. Kirby called themselves a cissexual non-binary person who hoped conversations about gender would make things easier for whoever came next. Months later, Kirby met through work reached out to share that their child came out as trans. Kirby says having space to practice their pronouns helped the family affirm their child correctly right away. Kirby now works in an arts space where people usually get their pronouns right immediately. and they frame the relationship as symbiotic—LGBTQIA2S+ or allied. “our relationship is symbiotic. We help each other.”.
For Paula Boggs, musician and leader of Paula Boggs Band—and former EVP and general counsel at Starbucks—allyship was folded into something as ordinary as an interview.
A few days before she spoke for this piece. her band was in-studio at a radio station to play three songs from their new album and be interviewed by the radio host. Their final song was “Still Grateful,” honoring Boggs’ decades-long relationship and marriage. Boggs says the host didn’t just ask why she wrote the song—he asked how her wife and she met. Boggs answered. “At risk of cliché. we met at a brunch!” The host also asked if Boggs could recall what she ate. She says the conversation mattered because it was unforced and sometimes funny. and because the host shared their origin story with radio listeners without flinching.
Christel S. Miller, a senior creative executive at Fabel Entertainment, traced her own path into the industry through representation and mentorship. She said “But I’m a Cheerleader” was the film that changed her life and brought her into her sexuality. In college, she invited Jamie Babbit to screen the film and speak. Getting to know Babbit, Miller says, gave her confidence to pursue the business after graduation. Twenty years later, she was finally in a
position to make shows that could make a difference for queer youth. Miller says she was moved when her boss and ally helped champion and green light Clea Duvall’s award-winning series “High School. ” based on Tegan and Sara’s memoir. along with Norman Lear’s final series “Clean Slate” starring Laverne Cox at Freevee/Amazon Studios. Miller said allyship in the room is necessary to get stories told—and that Babbit’s earlier influence. plus the support she received
later. stayed with her.
Mel Harris, a law student and former VP of Partnerships at GLAAD, spoke about allyship’s power in the darkest moments.
Harris came out almost 10 years ago into an evangelical family and community where there were “no queer role models and few friendly faces.” After rejection and attempts at conversion. Harris said there was a serious suicide attempt that landed her in the cardiac ICU. During that isolation. Harris said the people who reached her were strangers on a screen: LGBTQ+ characters. actors and musicians who owned their truth. Harris says their courage “gave me back my own,” and that shame loosened its grip while hope returned. Seven years later. Harris stood on the top floor of the Grammy Museum in Los Angeles at a fundraiser sharing her story with a room filled with entertainers. creators and philanthropists. Harris says storytelling can humanize a community others have tried to villainize. and that “what looks like ‘entertainment’ may actually be a lifeline keeping someone alive long enough to use their own voice.”.
There’s a through-line across these accounts: the same theme, repeated in different workplaces and forms of art—small moments of attention, language, and space that change what feels possible.
Paired with Difuntorum’s opening memory. they build a clear pattern of what “allyship” can mean when it’s measured in safety rather than spectacle. Behind the scenes—writers’ rooms. set days. hallway conversations—the choices that matter are often the ones that prevent fear from swallowing the truth.
Difuntorum. who is a litigator at Kinsella Holley Iser Kump Steinsapir LLP (KHIKS) and a former outside pro bono counsel to GLAAD. framed the takeaway plainly: meaningful allyship is less about grand gestures and more about listening without judgment. making space for people to feel safe enough to be themselves. In an industry with unparalleled power to shape cultural attitudes around LGBTQ+ acceptance. she argues that allyship matters—and that when LGBTQ+ individuals inside entertainment companies feel seen and supported. they bring their full selves to the work. which leads to better stories: more authentic. more accurate and more human.
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