Your Cart is Empty
EU Customers: Temporary pause for EU customs regulations. Join our priority relaunch list (POP UP)
Something is shifting.
In the past year, major corporations have quietly dismantled DEI programmes that took decades to build. Disney eliminated its diversity team. Amazon shuttered its DEI initiatives. Meta scaled back LGBTQ+ representation efforts. Microsoft, Accenture, and countless others have followed suit.
And it's not just internal programmes. Corporations are withdrawing from Pride events worldwide—pulling sponsorships, removing their logos from parade routes, quietly stepping back from the public celebrations they once championed. The same companies that draped themselves in rainbows every June are now calculating that visibility with our community is a liability.
If you're LGBTQ+ and reading this, you've felt it. The Pride flags coming down from office lobbies. The employee resource groups losing funding. The sponsorship banners disappearing from Pride festivals. The uncomfortable silence where there used to be support.
This isn't just corporate cost-cutting. It's a coordinated retreat.
And if we're not paying attention—if we dismiss this as "just business"—we'll wake up one day to find we've lost far more than workplace initiatives.
The corporate rollbacks aren't happening in isolation. They're part of a broader pattern:
When major corporations—who spent years celebrating Pride Month and championing inclusion—suddenly go silent, it signals something dangerous: they've calculated that supporting us is no longer profitable or safe.
The message is unmistakable: blend in, tone it down, or disappear.
But here's what they've forgotten: we've been here before, and we know how this story ends.
Every gain our community has made—every right, every protection, every moment of acceptance—came from visibility. From refusing to hide. From saying "we're here" even when it was dangerous to do so.
When corporations remove DEI programmes, they're not just cutting budgets. They're removing the infrastructure that made LGBTQ+ employees visible and supported. They're dismantling the networks that helped us find each other in professional spaces.
And that's precisely why we need to double down on visibility now.
In workplaces where Pride initiatives are vanishing, where rainbows are deemed "too political," where you're told to "keep personal life separate from work," visibility becomes resistance.
Not loud, aggressive resistance. Quiet, persistent, undeniable presence.
Here's the beautiful truth they don't want you to know: you can't legislate identity out of existence.
You can remove DEI programmes. You can take down Pride flags. You can eliminate funding for employee resource groups.
But you can't stop us from recognising each other. You can't prevent us from building community. You can't force us to be invisible when we choose to be seen.
This is where symbols become powerful.
Throughout history, marginalised communities have used subtle signals to find each other in hostile environments. A certain colour. A particular accessory. A coded phrase. These weren't acts of hiding—they were acts of strategic visibility. Being seen by those who matter, in ways that protect us from those who don't.
If you're in a corporate environment that's rolled back LGBTQ+ support, you're probably wondering: How do I stay visible without jeopardising my career? How do I find community when the official channels are gone?
The answer isn't to shout louder. It's to signal smarter.
Wear your identity in ways they can't ban:
A pride bracelet on your wrist during a Zoom call. A subtle signal that tells other LGBTQ+ colleagues: I'm here. You're not alone. We see each other.
No HR policy can prohibit jewellery. No dress code forbids a bracelet. But that small signal does something powerful:
This is how we maintain visibility when they want us to disappear: one bracelet, one conversation, one connection at a time.
When official channels close, we build unofficial ones.
This is what we've always done. When gay bars were raided, we created new gathering spaces. When mainstream media ignored us, we built our own publications. When corporations won't support us, we support each other.
Your bracelet becomes a beacon. It tells other LGBTQ+ people in your workplace: You can talk to me. I'm safe. We're in this together.
Those small moments of recognition matter enormously:
This is guerrilla community-building. This is resistance that doesn't require permission.
The DEI rollbacks are a warning shot. If we respond by going quiet, by hiding to protect our careers, by accepting that visibility is a "privilege" companies can revoke—we'll lose far more than workplace programmes.
But if we respond by refusing to be invisible, by finding each other despite the obstacles, by building community in the spaces they're trying to clear—we prove what we've always known: you cannot erase us.
The corporations can dismantle their initiatives. Politicians can pass restrictive laws. But they can't stop us from existing. From connecting. From being visible on our own terms.
Every time you wear your identity to work, you're making a choice. You're saying: my existence isn't up for debate. My community matters. I refuse to disappear.
This isn't about being provocative. It's about being present.
It's about the LGBTQ+ employee in a newly hostile workplace who spots your bracelet and exhales for the first time in weeks.
It's about building networks that survive corporate policy changes.
It's about ensuring that when they remove the infrastructure of inclusion, we create our own.
RCREW bracelets were designed for exactly this moment. Workplace-appropriate. Subtle enough to fly under hostile radar. Clear enough that other LGBTQ+ people recognise the signal immediately.
They're not just accessories. They're tools for building community when official channels disappear. They're visible commitments to solidarity. They're quiet acts of resistance that say: I'm here, I see you, we're not going anywhere.
They banned rainbow crosswalks in Texas. LGBTQ+ people responded by painting rainbows across Houston—decentralised, ungovernable, unstoppable. When governments try to erase us from public spaces, personal visibility becomes political resistance. Every small act of defiance becomes collective strength.
Look around any public space today. How many of us can you spot? For decades, that question held life-or-death stakes. This World AIDS Day, we remember the fierce, defiant love that kept our community alive when no one else would—and why visibility still matters today.
A colourful bracelet may look small, but it carries a big message. At RCREW, we began by easing swipe fatigue and sparking real-world encounters. Today, our mission has deepened: to unify the LGBTQ+ community, stand defiantly visible, and defend the rights that generations before us fought to secure. Each bracelet is more than an accessory — it’s a daily act of solidarity and resistance.
