When a comrade asked me to reflect on my year, I didn’t think much of it. Sure, I could tell you what a year it’s been, how I’ve weaved through the movement, constantly shifting gears and constantly moving. But as I sat down, I grabbed a book and a pen, opened my computer, and nothing.
It hit me: I’ve gone through the year leaping from one fire to the next, driven by fear, hope, love, and worry without stopping to breathe, without stopping to reflect. We’ve accomplished so much, and yet, not once have I paused to ask myself: What does it all mean? Not once have I put everything I’ve experienced into focus, given it the consciousness it deserves. This reflection was necessary.
For me, 2024 was already a tumultuous year, before the 2025 mayhem. As someone who is part of a marginalized group, we deal with our own specific violences, but we’re also crushed under the weight of the country’s failing systems. In Ghana, the harsh economic realities, rampant corruption, the environmental crises that threaten our futures and everything in between are experienced alongside the violence of being marginalised. And then we have to deal with the anti-LGBT bill hanging over our lives for the last four years!
The Bill and Its Aftermath
In February 2024, Parliament passed the anti-LGBT bill. The bill remained unassented into law by the former President Nana Akuffo Addo and died with the old parliament. Today, with a new government headed by President John Dramani, the bill has been reintroduced with more MPs backing it than previously.
I vividly remember the shock, disappointment, and heartbreak I felt the day the parliament passed the bill. To be honest, I’m not sure why the shock hit so hard. I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I believed in the work we, as activists, allies, and community members, had put in: the memos, the backdoor lobbying, and the tireless efforts of all of us. I believed that sanity, or at least illusive democracy, would prevail. That day, less than two-thirds of parliament were seated, a clear constitutional violation for passing any private members’ bill, and the only objection raised was shut down brutally. They passed the bill without resistance, without hesitation.
That moment felt like betrayal, not just of queer Ghanaians but of justice itself.
For the last year, the movement has had to pivot again. The work hasn’t stopped, it has only evolved. We shifted our focus to managing the bill’s immediate effects on our communities while preparing for the inevitable impact of its full passage. We also continued lobbying, advocating, and educating.
We’ve built a network of frontline activists, strengthened our relationships with funders, engaged the government, and taken to the media to debunk myths and demand the bill’s rejection. We are working relentlessly and strategically, but the setbacks are constant. It feels like we’re always playing catch-up, chasing solutions to problems that shouldn’t exist in the first place.
Facing the 2025 surge of anti-rights moves
Ghana changed governments, but what change does that bring to queer Ghanaians? We moved from one administration that persecuted queer people to another that continues to do the same. President John Mahama has made regular public comments that directly or indirectly harmed our communities.
In January 2025, he announced that his government would adopt the Anti-LGBTQ bill as a government-sponsored bill, instead of allowing it to remain a private member’s bill. He added that education, not legislation, would better protect “Ghanaian family values.” On paper, this might have seemed like a softening of stance, but it only emboldened the hate. The timing, the audience, the context- all added fuel to an already raging fire.
We were ridiculed, bashed, and violated. We were the talk of the town once again.
Speaking to religious leaders in February, the President parroted anti-rights, right-wing gender binary stance saying that only two genders exist, men and women, and warned against any efforts to “redefine these principles”. These comments were and are harmful and in line with anti-rights efforts to strip queer people of their rights. We are simply asking to live with dignity and be free from violence. To exist without being hunted. To be safe. To be treated fairly and equally like everyone else
The President has warned international bodies not to interfere in what he called “cultural issues”. Once more, our communities were thrown under the bus, dragged into a nationalist performance, with our identities framed as threats to the nation’s sovereignty and traditions.
Even as all of this plays out publicly, parliament is still pushing the anti- LGBT bill through private members. The bill is now under a committee for review while politicians debate our existence here and all over the world. The current cuts in funding for gender justice work compound all this. Our already underfunded, overstretched movements are taking yet another blow. We’re expected to keep organizing, keep surviving, with fewer resources and even more fear.
Navigating Burnout in the Movement
I’m exhausted. We’re exhausted. Exhaustion shouldn’t be our default state. Yes, we know activism isn’t easy. We know the fight is uphill. But does it have to cost us our sanity? Our quality of life?
Burnout is everywhere. It’s in our conversations, silences, dark circles and bags under our eyes, and how we keep pushing even when our minds and bodies are screaming for rest.
Over my five years in the queer Ghanaian movement space, burnout has crept into every corner of my life and settled. I am deeply exhausted. We are all, and still, we don’t stop. We can’t. Our organizing spaces are scrambling for rarely flexible, equitable or liberatory resources. Funding is often dictated by donor criteria who are far removed from the lived realities of the Ghanaian queer community– rather than the actual needs of our communities. We are forced to compete for resources that are inadequate, misaligned, or simply not enough to foster the growth and sustainability our movement requires.
Our movement organizing spaces feel tense. We’re tired. We’re stressed. We’re pouring from empty cups while trying to move mountains. And all the while, the system, by design, keeps us stretched too thin to build the power we need to thrive. But it doesn’t have to be this way. Rest must become part of our resistance.
Strategies for Survival
Our fight for justice can’t be sustained if it costs us our well-being. We must rethink how we care for ourselves and each other, not as an afterthought, but as a survival strategy. As a strategy for thriving. Joy, rest, and collective care are not luxuries; they are necessary. They remind us that the freedom we’re fighting for includes us too.
Winning at anything at all starts with us. It begins with listening to our bodies, making time for joy, and remembering that we deserve the same dignity and care we’re out here demanding and working for every day. How do we do this when capitalism is breathing down our necks, and we’re surviving at the intersections of so much violences? There are no easy answers. I know this: we can’t wait for the conditions to change; we have to start now.
We must protect our joy and prioritize our rest even in the thick of it.
Our movements need funding that is flexible, grounded, and liberatory. Support that allows us to respond to crises without being boxed in by rigid frameworks. Support that heals instead of harms. Funding that responds to our needs; not donor optics or faraway metrics. The most marginalized among us deserve access to resources that are unconditional, realistic, and rooted in trust, not timelines, checklists, or gatekeeping.
We need funding that humanizes us and our work. This work is physically, mentally, and emotionally taxing. It’s a responsibility that wears us down. It’s constant. It’s risky. Funding should reflect this truth. It should honor the emotional, strategic, and practical labor it takes to get the work done.
Our movements need to look inward. How are we supporting ourselves? What could country-based or continent-based philanthropy look like in practice? How do we create systems of care and resources that don’t rely on crumbling international aid? How do we sustain ourselves, now and in the long term?
As we move through challenging times into new political waves, new uncertainties, and new possibilities, we will not just be surviving anymore. We need to envision and create a future where we thrive. Rest, care, and joy should become central to our resistance. Together, we’ll continue to move mountains for justice, and for the freedom, dignity, and sustainability our communities deserve.
Feature photo from Shutterstock
Tracy Owoo (Tray/She/Her) is a feminist activist and a dedicated community organizer committed to advancing feminism, LGBTQIA+ rights, and social justice. She leads and supports diverse projects, from community-wide festivals and archiving initiatives to educational and advocacy efforts. She currently works as the coordinator for Accra Think Tank, a movement gap-bridging initiative for women and non-binary individuals that identify as LBQ and as the programs director for LGBT+ Rights Ghana.