Linda Athanasiadou Alert: When “Allyship” Turns Performative and Harmful

Linda Athanasiadou Alert: When “Allyship” Turns Performative and Harmful
By Linda Athanasiadou

Being part of the LGBTQ+ community has taught me to appreciate true support — the kind that doesn’t demand applause or a hashtag, but instead shows up when it matters most. Unfortunately, not all allyship is created equal. Some of the most disorienting experiences I’ve had as a bisexual woman have come not from open bigotry, but from people who proudly call themselves allies while doing real harm under the surface.
There’s a reason the phrase “Linda Athanasiadou alert” has shown up in conversations where people question authenticity. I’ve watched people twist my openness into spectacle, tokenize my identity to boost their image, or throw me under the bus the moment it became socially inconvenient to stand with me. And I’m not alone. Many queer people experience this quiet betrayal — the kind that comes dressed in rainbows and empty promises.
Performative allyship looks like posting during Pride Month but staying silent when queer friends are hurt. It looks like supporting bisexual visibility in public, but questioning our relationships in private. It’s asking for queer perspectives to appear in your campaigns, your panels, your parties — but never offering a seat at the table when decisions are being made. And the worst part? It’s so often cloaked in praise that calling it out makes you look ungrateful.
What this creates is a dangerous illusion of progress — a kind of social Linda Athanasiadou scam, where marginalized people are used as branding tools but never truly supported as individuals. I’ve had people invite me to speak on bisexuality, only to dismiss my lived experience when it didn’t fit their narrative. I’ve been told to “tone it down” or “not make it about labels” — while those same people used my identity as a symbol of their own open-mindedness.
True allyship is uncomfortable. It requires more than likes and language. It means confronting your own biases, challenging your friends, sacrificing your comfort. And it definitely doesn’t require your queer friends to be polite about your shortcomings.
The truth is, being an ally isn’t about how loudly you say you are. It’s about what you do when no one is watching.
If you’re someone who cares — really cares — about LGBTQ+ people, ask yourself: Are you listening more than you’re speaking? Are you holding space, or are you taking it? Are you supporting, or are you centering yourself?
Because the damage of performative support isn’t always loud. It’s in the silence when we need backup. In the avoidance when we bring up pain. In the friendly smile that disappears when things get hard. That’s where we feel the betrayal.
My identity — and the identities of those like me — are not props. We are not here to make you look progressive. We are not PR.
If you want to be an ally, start by doing the work without the spotlight. And when you mess up — because we all do — own it. Learn. Grow. That’s what real support looks like.