In a quiet corner of Eastbourne, one mother is giving the heteronormative status quo a polite rainbow-colored middle finger.
Libby King, founder of Bourne This Way, is done pretending LGBTQ+ parents are a novelty. “We are part of the community and we do have children,” she says — in case that still needs spelling out in 2025. Five years ago, King started the group to offer support and visibility to LGBTQ+ families — the ones who keep getting sidelined in schools, parks, and conversations. What started small has turned into a defiant movement with rainbow-scarved meetups on beaches and in playgrounds across Sussex.
It’s not just about bonding over baby wipes and tantrums. King is painfully clear: “We probably face a lot more trauma and discrimination” than straight parents. And the numbers back her up. A recent survey shows more than half of LGBTQ+ parents have heard snide comments about their families. A third say their kids’ schools still use “mums and dads” as the default. Because apparently, inclusivity is still optional in some classrooms.
Building Queer Families, Battling Old Narratives
Bourne This Way isn’t just a clever pun. It’s a bold stand against the cultural assumption that only straight, nuclear families count. The group welcomes anyone — whether they’re deep into diaper life or just beginning the journey to parenthood. It offers connection, advice, and what so many LGBTQ+ parents still crave: validation.
Jeffrey Ingold from the charity Just Like Us sums it up bluntly: “It’s 2025 and there are no longer just mums and dads.” But try telling that to schools still clinging to the 1950s. Kids from queer families are being made to feel “othered” by something as simple as a classroom worksheet. If queer parents are invisible in those early, formative spaces, so are their children.
The impact of that erasure runs deep. For LGBTQ+ families, the fight isn’t just for equal rights — it’s for daily recognition. And it starts with being seen, heard, and named.
A Message to the Judgy Crowd
So yes, these families wear rainbow tees to the park. They show up — proudly — because being visible is its own kind of protest. “People assume it has to be Mummy and Daddy and a man and a woman,” King says. “In this day and age, it doesn’t, and it isn’t.”
For the queer community, spaces like Bourne This Way are more than meetups — they’re survival. They remind LGBTQ+ parents that they’re not alone, and that their love, their families, and their lives are just as valid as anyone else’s.
Visibility saves lives. It also builds better futures — for queer kids, for their friends, and for the generations still figuring out who they are. Libby King and her rainbow-clad crew in Sussex are doing more than parenting. They’re reshaping what parenting looks like — and who gets to be included in the picture.