Just Like Us ambassador Rush Mittal reflects on the queer significance of the Lionesses’ historic 2025 Euros victory.

WORDS BY RUSH MITTAL

The Lionesses are now back-to-back champions of Europe, this time after a thrilling tournament and a final that felt like it contained the heartbeat of every queer fan watching.

Against the world champions, Spain, this match went the full distance and then some. You could see it in every tackle, every clearance, every goal celebration. Hannah Hampton fighting through a bloody nose, Lucy Bronze taping her own leg mid-game and playing with a fractured tibia, and Chloe Kelly earning her roster spot through sheer mental strength: this was more than just a game.

We witnessed history being made through a celebration of unapologetic joy and unfiltered tenacity. It has been incredible to watch so many countries take huge leaps towards growing the women’s game, particularly Italy and Switzerland. More than ever, especially for the Lionesses, this summer has been about belonging.

I was 13 the first time I watched a women’s football tournament, huddled over a screen watching highlight reels on YouTube. Back then, the women’s game still lived in the margins. It felt like a secret world that I had stumbled upon, designed just for me, where the players looked like who I dreamed of being. Where you could be strong and fast and loud, where you could lead and sweat and celebrate without apology. Football gave me a place to be raw and real, in a life where being “unladylike” was punished more often than praised. On the pitch, playing with friends of any gender, I found freedom. Football didn’t ask me to shrink.

In the years that followed, I came out as queer and non-binary, and somewhere along the way, I lost touch with the game. As an Indian queer person that was growing further and further away from gender binaries, It felt like I no longer fit. I was so tangled up with expectations about who I was allowed to be, and how.

But the Lionesses never stopped playing. And this summer, they won again.

The Lionesses played with grit and grace, coming from behind against Sweden, Italy, and again against Spain. More than the football, it was their spirit that moved me. Jess Carter’s perseverance in the face of hoards of hate and racism thrown her way leading up to the final particularly moved me, as I reconciled with my own cultural identity within the landscape of the sport. She came out and put in a stellar defensive shift that helped the Lionesses win. Expressed perfectly by Keira Walsh when she emphasised the pride the team feels in their resilience, they “just don’t know when to give up”.

It's a good morning to wake up as EUROPEAN CHAMPIONS! 🙌 pic.twitter.com/FPxcyJKkK8

— Lionesses (@Lionesses) July 28, 2025

Women’s football has long stood for more than sport. It has stood for visibility, for authenticity, for change. Openly queer players don’t hide – they lead teams, wear the armband, and kiss their partners after full time, proudly, in celebration of who they are and what they have achieved. In this game, being yourself isn’t political – it’s expected.

This summer’s Euros in Switzerland proved that the women’s game is thriving. There were over 657,000 people in attendance, and more than 45 million were watching globally. A sold-out final. These numbers are proof that this game belongs to all of us. And it’s not going anywhere but up.

As a queer fan, as someone who drifted away and found their way back, I’ve felt something in this victory that goes beyond joy. It feels like homecoming. In the years since the Lionesses first lifted the trophy in 2022, grassroots football in England has exploded. Teams have popped up everywhere – diverse, welcoming, fiercely inclusive.

As Leah Williamson put it, holding back tears while addressing the celebrating crowd at Buckingham Palace: “We do it for young girls. This job never existed 30 years ago. We’re making history with everything we do.”

They’re not just making history. They’re making space for each and every one of us, and that gives me hope for the future of the game for all women. For trans women. For non-binary players. For every kid who’s still watching YouTube clips late at night wondering if there’s a place for them here. There is. Because of the Lionesses. Because of what they’ve built. Because of what they’ve won, not just in medals, but in meaning.

This is more than just a game. It always has been. And now, finally, the world is watching.

The post ‘The Lionesses’ Euros win was a landmark moment for queer visibility’ appeared first on GAY TIMES.

This South Asian Heritage Month, Just Like Us ambassador Rush Mittal is drawing attention to the region’s third gender – a community often overlooked.

WORDS BY RUSH MITTAL

I never heard the word “Hijra” in school. No teacher ever mentioned that South Asia has legally recognised trans and non-binary identities for centuries. Instead, I learned about gender as a rigid binary, an unyielding structure where deviation meant exclusion, shame, or silence. But my own history has always told a different story.

As a child growing up in Mumbai, my first and only exposure to trans identities came in the form of crossdressers begging on the roadsides. The word “Hijra” was never spoken in my classrooms, never written in my textbooks. This was no accident. It was an erasure, a consequence of colonial imposition, that reshaped South Asia’s understanding of gender and identity.

The Hijra community is South Asia’s third gender, legally recognised in India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Nepal. But their history stretches far beyond modern legal frameworks. For centuries, Hijras have been an integral part of South Asian society and history, revered as spiritual figures, entrusted as royal advisors and respected as community leaders. They are not just crossdressers or trans women, they encompass a whole range of diverse gender identities, with a strong core of community.

During the Mughal Empire, Hijras held powerful positions within royal courts. They were custodians of harems, trusted confidants to rulers, and key players in politics and governance. Far from being marginalised, they were honoured and protected. But with British colonisation came the Criminal Tribes Act of 1871, which demonised Hijras, stripping them of their social standing and criminalising their existence.

Colonialism imposed a Eurocentric gender binary, erasing the legitimacy of gender-diverse identities that had existed for centuries. This legacy of erasure persists today, both socially and educationally. It is no coincidence that many South Asians only learn about the Hijra community through stereotypes, often encountering them as beggars, not as the cultural and historical figures they have always been.

I was vaguely aware India legally recognised a third gender, but I never understood its significance, and certainly never knew that it was the Hijra community that fought for this recognition, that their resilience reshaped modern legal definitions of gender in South Asia.

Despite centuries of oppression, the Hijra community continues to fight for visibility and rights, with some key names like Shabnam Mausi, the first transgender member of the legislative assembly in India, and Laxmi Narayan Tripathi, an activist and UN representative amplifying trans voices on a global stage, paving the way.

These individuals are more than activists or pioneers; they embody resilience in the face of systemic erasure. Their stories deserve to be taught, celebrated, and remembered — not just within LGBTQIA+ spaces, but in mainstream education.

In my third year of university — just over two years ago — I finally learned about the Hijra community in an academic setting. It was bittersweet, because it was far too late.

How different might my childhood have been if I had known, from an early age, that trans and non-binary identities were not anomalies or mistakes, but an inherent part of South Asian history? Part of my own history?

The absence of Hijra history from our education system is part of a broader pattern.

LGBTQIA+ history, if taught at all, usually centers Western narratives — Stonewall, Harvey Milk, the AIDS crisis. These are vital parts of our community’s history, but are not the whole picture, especially in diverse cultural contexts. A truly inclusive curriculum would teach about Hijras in South Asia, Two-Spirit people in North America, Fa’afafine in Samoa and other gender-diverse identities across cultures and continents.

If I had learned about the Hijra community in school, it would have given me the language to understand myself, the confidence to navigate my identity and the knowledge to challenge the colonial constructs that still dictate how we define gender. It would have shown me that trans people are not new, not unnatural, not Western inventions — we are a part of something ancient, something powerful.

Many people grow up never understanding trans identities because they are never taught about them. This lack of education breeds ignorance, stigma and fear. A world where the Hijra community is included in history books is a world where trans children grow up seeing themselves as inheritors of a rich, storied past. This benefits not only South Asian trans children, but rather provides a history for all trans people, globally.

Hijras have existed for centuries, trans identities have existed and thrived for centuries. It’s time the world recognises them.

Rush is an ambassador for Just Like Us, the LGBTQIA+ young people’s charity. LGBTQIA+ and 18 to 25? Sign up now!

The post ‘The Hijra community is a testament to the history and legacy of queer South Asians’ appeared first on GAY TIMES.

Ahead of International Women’s Day, Just Like Us ambassador Rush Mittal honours suffragist and queer pioneer Catherine Duleep Singh.

WORDS BY RUSH MITTAL

Catherine Duleep Singh is today known best as a suffragist, a queer pioneer, and for being instrumental in aiding the escape of many Jewish families from Germany during the second World War.

The Indian princess moved to Germany in 1908 with her former governess and life partner, Lina Schafer, next to whom she also asked to be buried when she died. Historians will, of course, call them roommates, but today most recognise them as an iconic queer couple. We honour Catherine as a hero, and for me personally, she helped me reconcile my queer and South Asian identities through her bravery and authenticity.

As a queer and non-binary South Asian person, Catherine’s story is deeply personal. A few years ago, while volunteering for the Whitworth Art Gallery’s Undefining Queer exhibition in Manchester, I came across a beautiful gold saree. Its intricate embroidery shimmered under the gallery lights, catching my eye and, unknowingly at the time, my heart. Upon learning that the saree belonged to Catherine Duleep Singh, I felt an instant connection — not just to her story, but to my own heritage and identity.

The saree itself stands as a powerful symbol of South Asian heritage. Worn by as a sign of femininity for centuries, its drape holds histories of craftsmanship and artistry that were threatened by colonisation. Under British rule, the saree — and the expression of South Asian mastery and identity it represented — was diminished in an attempt to dominate and control the colonised populace. For Catherine, wearing a saree would have been an act of rebellion, perhaps a manner of expressing her queerness — a quiet yet bold assertion of her identity, against both colonial and societal norms.

As a suffragist and a queer woman living in early 1900s Britain, Catherine embodied the saree’s spirit of resistance. Her queerness adds layers of meaning to the garment, transforming it into a symbol of living authentically, of rejecting the binary boxes imposed by patriarchy and heteronormativity. Seeing her saree on display at the Whitworth was a monumental moment for me — a queer, South Asian university student dealing with my own queer journey.

The saree’s symbolism in Catherine’s life resonates within the broader context of queer South Asian history and culture. For centuries, South Asia has been home to communities like the Hijra, who have existed outside of the gender binary. The Hijra have historically donned sarees, using the garment as a powerful expression of their identity. The saree, in this context, is more than clothing — it is a declaration of selfhood and resilience in the face of marginalisation — and the princess’ story is an empowering one that led me to a deeper understanding of my own history.

As I navigated my own queerness and transness, I initially felt a sense of distance from my heritage, as if the two parts of my identity were pulling me in opposite directions. Learning about Catherine through the metaphor of the saree helped reconcile these aspects of myself.

Her life showed me that to be queer and South Asian is not a contradiction — it is a legacy of resilience and courage, someone who dared to live authentically, a queer pioneer who inspires me and countless others. And the saree, shimmering in the Whitworth Art Gallery, represents so much more than its fabric and stitches — it represents the unyielding power of identity, heritage, and love, and for me, a way to weave together the threads of my identity and wear them with pride.

Rush is an ambassador for Just Like Us, the LGBT+ young people’s charity. Just Like Us needs LGBT+ ambassadors aged 18-25 to speak in schools – sign up now.

The post Catherine Duleep Singh: The queer suffragist and Indian princess we should all know about appeared first on GAY TIMES.

Just Like Us ambassador Rush Mittal explores the power of a haircut in an LGBTQIA+ person’s journey of self-discovery.

WORDS BY RUSH MITTAL

“When did you get the haircut?” It’s a question many trans-masculine and non-binary people have asked or been asked, an invitation to share a pivotal moment in our self-discovery journey.

Though haircuts might not commonly be major events in the lives of cisgender people, for many of us, this moment carries huge emotional weight. Growing up in India and Hong Kong, where beauty standards enforce rigid gender binaries, a simple haircut transformed into an act of rebellion in my childhood. In these cultures, where long hair is traditionally equated with femininity, choosing a short haircut defies norms ingrained over generations.

Interconnected with societal expectations, modern gender norms, and cultural implications, hair can speak more than words are capable of expressing. It can be a key part of exploring one’s personal gender expression.

That first haircut is often deeply tied to a reclamation of identity and can feel extremely empowering. It can be profoundly gender affirming, offering a sense of relief from dysphoria stemming from rigid, traditional, appearance-based gender expectations.

I never fully understood why cutting my hair shorter each time felt so liberating. With every trip to the salon, I felt more like myself. Ironically, I didn’t even begin to question my gender identity until three or four years after my first short bob — a cautious experiment with androgyny.

Of course, there’s no singular way to “look” trans or non-binary, but for many, including me, androgynous expression paved a path towards exploration. In many cultures, embracing androgyny is an act of rebellion, a subtle but powerful push against the boundaries of gender norms.

Though plentiful in Indian history, queerness is no longer embraced in modern society following centuries of colonial suppression. Generations after independence, many still cling to the rigid binaries that colonialism left behind. This societal pressure made it difficult for me to cut my hair any shorter than shoulder length, especially at 14 years old.

So, I waited.

Today, seven years later, much has changed — not only in my personal journey but in the world around us. I am now out and proud, identifying as trans-masc and non-binary, and I’ve explored various androgynous haircuts along the way.

What stands out to me is how, globally and even in countries like India, traditional gender norms are shifting. It’s becoming increasingly common for people to confidently experiment with androgynous styles, reflecting a broader cultural movement toward rejecting binary ideas of gender and embracing fluid expressions of identity.

With the influx of androgynous trends and the rapid rise in popularity of haircuts like mullets and wolf cuts, it feels liberating to walk into a salon in Mumbai and simply ask for what I want.

Less confined by outdated norms, these haircuts offer people an opportunity to explore their identities on their own terms. In India, where colonial legacies have long shaped conservative gender ideals, this change signifies a subtle but important reclamation of individuality.

Androgynous haircuts, for many, aren’t just a matter of aesthetics but a form of self-expression. They challenge societal expectations and offer a gateway to personal exploration and gender affirmation. What could seem like just a trend, actually opens the doWor to greater freedom and authenticity for people from all walks of life, and of all gender identities, pushing society toward a more inclusive future.

Rush is an ambassador for Just Like Us, the LGBT+ young people’s charity. Just Like Us needs LGBT+ ambassadors aged 18-25 to speak in schools – sign up now.

The post ‘The haircut that paved my path to self-discovery and helped me reclaim my identity’ appeared first on GAY TIMES.