Leeds Beckett University - City Campus,
Woodhouse Lane,
LS1 3HE
LBU Together
![Leeds Beckett Logo]()
![View all by LBU Together]()
Living Through Silence and Change: Reflections on Growing Up, Family, and Finding Social Justice
When I look back on my youth in the late 1980s and early 1990s, I remember a world that often spoke about differences with discomfort, fear, or silence. It was a time when being openly lesbian, gay or bisexual was still viewed by many as something shameful. Although there were vibrant LGBTQ+ communities, they existed alongside prejudice that was embedded within institutions, politics, the media and everyday conversations.
Written By
LBU Together
One of the defining political moments of my adolescence was the introduction of Section 28 of the Local Government Act 1988. Although I did not fully understand its legal implications at the time, I understood its message. It told young people that same-sex relationships were not something to be acknowledged or discussed positively in schools. It created silence where education should have existed. It encouraged fear where acceptance should have flourished.
Looking back now, I recognise how damaging that silence was. Schools should be places where children learn about diversity, respect, and belonging. Instead, many teachers felt unable to support LGBTQ+ pupils or families for fear of breaching legislation. Young people who were questioning their identity often had nowhere to turn. The absence of discussion became a lesson in itself: that some lives were considered less acceptable than others.
Looking back now, I recognise how damaging that silence was. Schools should be places where children learn about diversity, respect, and belonging. Instead, many teachers felt unable to support LGBTQ+ pupils or families for fear of breaching legislation. Young people who were questioning their identity often had nowhere to turn. The absence of discussion became a lesson in itself: that some lives were considered less acceptable than others.
These wider social attitudes were not abstract political debates for me; they touched my own family.
My sister is gay, so growing up alongside her gave me an early understanding that love is simply love, regardless of one’s sexuality. Yet I also became aware of the judgement she could and did face simply for being herself. I witnessed the cautiousness that many LGBTQ+ people adopted—not because there was anything wrong with them, but because society often made them feel there was. My sister was involved in the Stop the Clause campaign in 1988, and created this banner with her peers, when they marched on the streets, in Leeds, as part of this national campaign.
My sister is gay, so growing up alongside her gave me an early understanding that love is simply love, regardless of one’s sexuality. Yet I also became aware of the judgement she could and did face simply for being herself. I witnessed the cautiousness that many LGBTQ+ people adopted—not because there was anything wrong with them, but because society often made them feel there was. My sister was involved in the Stop the Clause campaign in 1988, and created this banner with her peers, when they marched on the streets, in Leeds, as part of this national campaign.
Even more poignant was my father's experience.
As a bisexual man coming of age during the 1960s, he lived through an era in which same-sex relationships between men were criminalised for much of his youth. Before the Sexual Offences Act 1967 partially decriminalised sexual activity between men in England and Wales, being discovered could result in prosecution, imprisonment and public disgrace. Even after partial decriminalisation, equality remained a distant aspiration. Social attitudes changed far more slowly than legislation, and bisexuality was rarely acknowledged or understood.
The pressure he experienced to conceal such an important part of himself was immense. Like many men of his generation, he learned that survival often depended upon silence. Hiding one's identity comes at a significant emotional cost. It asks someone to constantly monitor their words, behaviour and relationships in order to avoid rejection or discrimination.
Perhaps because of these experiences within my own family, I developed a strong sense of social justice from an early age. I could never reconcile the idea that people should be judged for who they loved or how they identified. Equality seemed not a radical ideal but a simple matter of humanity.
Despite the wider climate of discrimination, I was fortunate to experience another side of LGBTQ+ life.
Growing up in Leeds offered opportunities to see communities that celebrated authenticity rather than hiding it. I accompanied my sister to gay venues and events where there was laughter, music, friendship and an unmistakable sense of belonging. Those spaces challenged many of the negative stereotypes that circulated elsewhere. They demonstrated that LGBTQ+ communities were not defined by difference but by connection, resilience and joy.
There was still stigma beyond those spaces. Public attitudes could be harsh, and prejudice remained commonplace. Yet those experiences taught me something profoundly important: communities flourish when people are allowed to be themselves. Inclusion creates safety; exclusion creates harm.
Those early experiences have remained with me throughout my life, influencing not only my personal beliefs but also my professional values.
Working within education and therapeutic settings, I have become increasingly aware that inclusion is not simply about policies; it is about everyday practice. It is reflected in the language we use, the assumptions we challenge, the stories we tell, and whose voices are heard.
Contemporary education has moved significantly from the days of Section 28. Schools are now expected to promote equality, challenge discrimination and provide relationships and sex education that recognises diverse families and identities. Legislation such as the Equality Act 2010 provides legal protection against discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender reassignment. Teachers are encouraged to create inclusive environments where every child feels safe, respected and valued.
While progress has undoubtedly been made, inclusion is not a destination but an ongoing commitment. LGBTQ+ young people continue to experience bullying, mental health inequalities and, at times, political debate about their very existence. This reminds us that rights can never be taken for granted.
My own journey, from witnessing the hidden struggles within my family, to experiencing the warmth of LGBTQ+ communities in Leeds, to working in environments that strive to promote dignity and inclusion, has reinforced a simple belief.
Every person deserves to live authentically without fear.
When I think about my father, I wonder what his life might have been had he grown up in a society that accepted him fully. I think about the emotional burden he carried in silence and the countless others whose stories remain untold. I think about my sister, who found community despite prejudice, and the courage it took simply to be herself.
Most of all, I think about the young people growing up today.
I hope they inherit a world where diversity is celebrated rather than merely tolerated; where classrooms acknowledge every family; where young people never feel that their identity should remain hidden; and where inclusion is understood not as a political statement but as a fundamental expression of human dignity.
My memories are rooted in a time of silence, but they are also a testament to change. They remind me that progress is made not only through legislation but through compassion, education and the courage of ordinary people who choose fairness over prejudice.
That belief has accompanied me throughout my life. It has shaped my understanding of justice, informed my professional practice, and continues to guide the way I hope to contribute to a society where everyone has the freedom to belong.
Caroline Burnley
Senior Lecturer, Psychological Therapies and Mental Health, Leeds Beckett University
As a bisexual man coming of age during the 1960s, he lived through an era in which same-sex relationships between men were criminalised for much of his youth. Before the Sexual Offences Act 1967 partially decriminalised sexual activity between men in England and Wales, being discovered could result in prosecution, imprisonment and public disgrace. Even after partial decriminalisation, equality remained a distant aspiration. Social attitudes changed far more slowly than legislation, and bisexuality was rarely acknowledged or understood.
The pressure he experienced to conceal such an important part of himself was immense. Like many men of his generation, he learned that survival often depended upon silence. Hiding one's identity comes at a significant emotional cost. It asks someone to constantly monitor their words, behaviour and relationships in order to avoid rejection or discrimination.
Perhaps because of these experiences within my own family, I developed a strong sense of social justice from an early age. I could never reconcile the idea that people should be judged for who they loved or how they identified. Equality seemed not a radical ideal but a simple matter of humanity.
Despite the wider climate of discrimination, I was fortunate to experience another side of LGBTQ+ life.
Growing up in Leeds offered opportunities to see communities that celebrated authenticity rather than hiding it. I accompanied my sister to gay venues and events where there was laughter, music, friendship and an unmistakable sense of belonging. Those spaces challenged many of the negative stereotypes that circulated elsewhere. They demonstrated that LGBTQ+ communities were not defined by difference but by connection, resilience and joy.
There was still stigma beyond those spaces. Public attitudes could be harsh, and prejudice remained commonplace. Yet those experiences taught me something profoundly important: communities flourish when people are allowed to be themselves. Inclusion creates safety; exclusion creates harm.
Those early experiences have remained with me throughout my life, influencing not only my personal beliefs but also my professional values.
Working within education and therapeutic settings, I have become increasingly aware that inclusion is not simply about policies; it is about everyday practice. It is reflected in the language we use, the assumptions we challenge, the stories we tell, and whose voices are heard.
Contemporary education has moved significantly from the days of Section 28. Schools are now expected to promote equality, challenge discrimination and provide relationships and sex education that recognises diverse families and identities. Legislation such as the Equality Act 2010 provides legal protection against discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender reassignment. Teachers are encouraged to create inclusive environments where every child feels safe, respected and valued.
While progress has undoubtedly been made, inclusion is not a destination but an ongoing commitment. LGBTQ+ young people continue to experience bullying, mental health inequalities and, at times, political debate about their very existence. This reminds us that rights can never be taken for granted.
My own journey, from witnessing the hidden struggles within my family, to experiencing the warmth of LGBTQ+ communities in Leeds, to working in environments that strive to promote dignity and inclusion, has reinforced a simple belief.
Every person deserves to live authentically without fear.
When I think about my father, I wonder what his life might have been had he grown up in a society that accepted him fully. I think about the emotional burden he carried in silence and the countless others whose stories remain untold. I think about my sister, who found community despite prejudice, and the courage it took simply to be herself.
Most of all, I think about the young people growing up today.
I hope they inherit a world where diversity is celebrated rather than merely tolerated; where classrooms acknowledge every family; where young people never feel that their identity should remain hidden; and where inclusion is understood not as a political statement but as a fundamental expression of human dignity.
My memories are rooted in a time of silence, but they are also a testament to change. They remind me that progress is made not only through legislation but through compassion, education and the courage of ordinary people who choose fairness over prejudice.
That belief has accompanied me throughout my life. It has shaped my understanding of justice, informed my professional practice, and continues to guide the way I hope to contribute to a society where everyone has the freedom to belong.
Caroline Burnley
Senior Lecturer, Psychological Therapies and Mental Health, Leeds Beckett University
