Every time we lose a young gay or queer person—especially one in the spotlight—there’s a familiar rhythm to the aftermath. A flood of RIPs and hearts on timelines. Favorite photos get reposted. Then, beneath the condolences, someone whispers the question: “Was it drugs?” “Was he sick?” “Did he take his own life?” And suddenly, people start clutching their pearls.
Now everybody’s scolding. “Don’t assume!” “Stop spreading stereotypes!” “Let the man rest!” The outrage kicks in fast—but it usually says more about our fears than it does about any real sense of respect. Folks act like even asking the question is an insult, when really, it’s grief and concern trying to find some clarity.
Let’s not pretend we haven’t been here before. We’ve seen it—too many times. And it’s not messy or shady to ask what happened. It’s human. Especially when the causes we’re afraid to name are the very ones still snatching our people. Denying the possibility doesn’t protect us. It just keeps us stuck.
Because let’s be honest—sometimes the stereotype exists because the pattern is real. Not always, but often enough. And the refusal to talk about that pattern? That’s part of the problem. Silence didn’t save us in the ‘80s, and it’s not saving us now.
We get so caught up in avoiding the image of the “tragic queer” that we don’t want to admit how many of us are still barely holding it together. That fear of being reduced to a cautionary tale has us downplaying the very issues that are cautionary tales. But the drugs are still here. The depression is still here. The isolation is still here. And HIV is still here—just better dressed in 2025. These aren’t just tropes—they’re traps. And they’re still catching folks.
People aren’t pulling their questions out of thin air. They’re pulling them from lived experience. From too many memorials, too many candlelight vigils, too many last texts that went unanswered. And whether we want to admit it or not, many of us know what it feels like to wonder if we’ll be next—or if we even want to be here tomorrow. Some of us are the ones who made it back from the edge, barely.
So when someone dies, and people ask, “Was it one of those things?”—don’t be so quick to shut it down. That question isn’t always disrespect. Sometimes it’s fear. Sometimes it’s heartbreak. Sometimes it’s a desperate need to know if we’re losing ground again in a fight we keep pretending we’ve already won.
Of course, we should show compassion. We don’t need to be messy. We can wait for the facts. But let’s not confuse dignity with denial. Talking about the truth doesn’t tarnish a person’s legacy—it gives it context. It gives us all a fighting chance. Respecting the dead means learning something from the loss. And that only happens when we’re brave enough to look at it head-on.
We’re not doing ourselves or the next generation any favors by romanticizing pain or glossing over patterns. The things taking us out—unspoken trauma, shame, silence, lack of care—are preventable. But they don’t go away just because we don’t name them. They thrive in the quiet. And too many of us were raised on that quiet like it was gospel.
We deserve to name the things that hurt us. We deserve to question what’s killing us. We deserve to be loud about what’s still stealing our people while pretending to be progress. Because mourning in silence isn’t healing. It’s just hiding.
So don’t let anyone shame you for asking. Ask. Learn. Speak. Mourn, yes—but then talk. Talk loud. Talk often. Because the truth, even when it’s ugly, is how we stay alive.