Tattered Rainbows of America
It feels like a shadow has settled over corporate allyship in America since Trump’s inauguration. Not long ago, it seemed like every major company wanted to drape itself in rainbow colors—even if only for a month. This phenomenon, often called "rainbow capitalism," has always been a double-edged sword. On one hand, seeing LGBTQ+ visibility in mainstream spaces—from online storefronts to high-profile ads—was thrilling. On the other hand, it was painfully clear that much of this support was driven by profit rather than principle. Now, those same rainbows are being quietly dismantled and tucked away.
Walmart no longer allows third-party retailers to offer certain LGBTQ-themed products. Ford has stepped back from the Human Rights Campaign’s Corporate Equality Index. Then there’s Meta, which now permits its users to label LGBTQ+ people as mentally ill under the guise of "free expression." Even Amazon, with all its resources and workforce, has chosen to erase LGBTQ+ support from its public stance.
It’s not just the policies themselves that sting—it’s what they signify. For years, corporations stood as imperfect but visible allies, their logos splashed with rainbows during Pride Month, their HR policies offering at least a semblance of protection. These moves were rarely altruistic and we knew that. But they provided a kind of shelter, a signal to employees and customers alike that being LGBTQ+ was something to be respected and accepted, not hidden. That shelter feels smaller now, the walls closing in as the winds outside grow colder.
As someone who has lived my entire life in Russia, where even a wrong person finding out about you can put you in danger, I know what it feels like to navigate a world where safe spaces are scarce. I’ve long envied the relative freedoms of LGBTQ+ people in the West—the parades, the open displays of affection, the recognition of partnerships, the legal protections. Watching those freedoms erode, even slightly, feels like seeing cracks form in a wall I had come to believe was essential and unshakeable.
Fighting conservative politicians, religious institutions, and bigots emboldened by anonymity is nothing new. But these companies weren’t allies by ideology—they were beneficiaries of our trust, money and labor. We helped build their brands, and now they’re telling us, in no uncertain terms, that we’re no longer worth the risk of defending. Rainbow capitalism was flawed, yes, but for people living in places where LGBTQ+ identities are widely rejected, these displays from global corporations were more than marketing. They carried a promise: that acceptance was possible, that you weren’t alone. Even its shallow gestures felt better than this quiet retreat.
This kind of betrayal reminds you how precarious acceptance can be, how conditional it often is. It makes you second-guess the spaces you thought were safe. It’s a loneliness I’ve felt too often here in Russia, where the closet isn’t just a metaphor but a survival tactic. To me personally, these shifts don’t change my daily life—I’m not an American. But the U.S. has always felt like a "nail" holding the Overton window pinned closer to full acceptance, perhaps even pulling it further in that direction. Now, it feels like everything’s come loose, and the removal of this global stabilizer might send the window sliding downward worldwide, as we already see happening in politic getting more right wing in general.
But we’ve been here before. The history of LGBTQ+ people is one of losing what we thought we had and banding together to reclaim it. It’s a history of finding ways to exist and thrive, even when the world says we shouldn’t. It’s a history of creating our own spaces when the ones we were promised were taken away. If the rainbow logos disappear and corporate policies erode, we’ll still have the community, our history and art. And if things feel harder for a while, we’ll find ways to move forward, as we always have. For now, living authentically, supporting each other through whatever comes next, and staying close to friends and online communities where you feel safe is essential—these connections are the foundation of strength and resilience. Take care of yourself, and don’t hesitate to reach out when you need support.