In a time of intolerance, Phoenix Gay Flag Football League offers refuge

For many LGBTQIA+ athletes, stepping onto the field isn’t just about competition, it’s about survival. In a world where queer identities are often met with hostility, finding a space to belong can be life-saving.

“When I was 16 years old, I attempted taking my life three times,” says Johnny Loaiza, the commissioner of the Phoenix Gay Flag Football League. “So for me, sports was always an outlet. Going into the Phoenix Gay Flag Football League was really just another opportunity, as I felt I was falling out of love with sports.”

The Phoenix Gay Flag Football League isn’t just a sports league – it’s a safe haven. Designed to foster community and inclusion, the league has grown into one of the largest LGBTQIA+ sports organizations in the Phoenix area. For players such as Loaiza and many others, it’s become a vital space for rebuilding confidence, connection and purpose.

“I think what really motivated me to play for the PGFFL was just an accepting community,” Loaiza says. “It had a very accepting culture that really felt like family. It’s kind of like that feeling of a brotherhood.”

But the need for that safe outlet has only grown in recent years, as the broader political climate has become increasingly hostile toward the LGBTQIA+ community – particularly transgender individuals in the realm of sports.

In Arizona and across the country, legislation has been introduced targeting everything from gender-affirming care to youth sports participation. And on a federal level, protections and resources are also under threat.

Most recently, President Donald Trump drew widespread backlash after shutting down the national suicide prevention hotline specifically tailored to LGBTQIA+ youth, a move that many mental health advocates called dangerous and deeply harmful. For many in the queer community, especially young people, the loss of that support line further isolates those already vulnerable to mental health crises.

Loaiza says the ripple effects of this political pressure were felt throughout the league.

“I think right now our league is definitely feeling it a little bit,” he says . “And I think some members still carry it with them. As much as we can do as a league, we should still try and support every single member of our league, with the big focus on our trans-queer community.”

Now more than ever, the PGFFL aims to use sport as an outlet for resilience and affirmation – building a league culture that not only shields its members from the weight of these national conversations, but actively counteracts them.

“We take a lot of pride in doing a lot of stuff internally trying to support our members regardless of their sexual orientation or identification,” Loaiza says. “We have a community newsletter that we send out monthly that always (features) some type of suicide prevention awareness.”

Jordan Elmore, PGFFL’s director of events and community outreach, echoed this sentiment.

“Especially right now, since (trans people are) the main target of a lot of things, we wanted to make sure they felt seen and heard,” Elmore says.

Whether they’re seasoned athletes or newcomers hesitant to step onto the field, many find the league offers a level of emotional safety that extends far beyond the game.

“We have people who are around me who are just like me,” says Cydeni Carter, a lifelong athlete and participant of the league. “I can speak very openly to (them). I can have my wife around and feel very comfortable and not like, ‘Oh are they looking at me?’ It’s just super nice to have.”

That kind of comfort is something many queer athletes have never experienced in other athletic environments. In many traditional sports environments, especially during childhood and adolescence, being queer often means staying silent. To participate, many athletes feel the need to compartmentalize – sacrificing parts of their identity in exchange for acceptance from their teammates and peers.

For Elmore, that contrast is one of the clearest reasons why leagues like the PGFFL need to exist.

“Sometimes with sports, there’s a lot of homophobia,” Elmore says. “It is a space for people to release their stressors or anger. … I’ve only played in gay leagues because I know there won’t be a weird disconnect.”

Queer athletes do face exclusion in sport due to their identity, according to research done by The Trevor Project, a nonprofit organization focused on suicide prevention for LGBTQIA+ youth. Nearly one-third of LGBTQIA+ youth surveyed reported playing sports – significantly lower than the more than 50% participation rate observed among all U.S. youth.

One participant of the survey says, “I avoided athletic activities out of terror, not disinterest.”

Still, those who do play sports report significant emotional benefits. Another Trevor Project study found that LGBTQIA+ youth who participated reported 18% lower rates of depressive symptoms compared to their non-participating peers. There was also an 8-9% increase in academic success, with more LGBTQIA+ sports-playing students reporting receiving mostly A’s in school compared to those who didn’t play.

Playing sports can be a form of therapy for queer youth and adults alike – offering structure, community and a sense of belonging.

“When I found my community with the PGFFL, it definitely felt like I was finding love, passion and a growth for something new,” Loaiza says. “And I think we all aspire for something new … it definitely feels like a home for a lot of people.”

Carter adds, “This is more than just playing a sport, these are my friends and family now. These are the people I see more than anyone.”

This creates a striking juxtaposition: The joy and connection that stems from sports stand in stark contrast to an often hostile political climate that frequently discourages the LGBTQIA+ community from playing them, particularly for trans athletes.

In recent years, Arizona has joined more than 20 other states in passing laws that restrict transgender youth from participating in sports aligned with their gender identity, the rhetoric of which echoed Trump’s 2025 “Keeping Men Out of Women’s Sports” executive order.

These actions, along with Trump’s removal of the specialized suicide prevention hotline for queer youth, threaten the movement that communities like the PGFFL strive to nurture. Organizations like The Trevor Project and one·n·ten, a nonprofit in Phoenix that offers various social services for LGBTQIA+ youth, fill in the gaps left by this legislation, but still, fear continues to grow.

Ninety percent of LGBTQIA+ youth said their well-being was negatively impacted by current politics – a number that reflects the deep emotional toll of exclusionary rhetoric and policy.

“Defunding the one thing that is relatable to queer children that feel like they have a safe place to go, not just a regular hotline, but a hotline that’s catered to them is going to cause a lot more issues later down the road,” Elmore says. “But people don’t realize, and (they won’t) until it’s too late.”

Elmore adds that these attacks come from a place of misunderstanding and misinformation.

“Just because people don’t understand it doesn’t mean that they have to go and attack one community and push this message that, ‘this community is so bad, we need to fight against them, they’re using all of our tax dollars for their own personal health care’, and whatnot,” Elmore says. “All of their arguments are not really valid.”

It’s an issue that goes beyond sports. At its core, the debate over transgender participation in athletics is a reflection of a broader struggle over visibility, identity and acceptance. When political leaders frame trans inclusion as a threat, it fuels stigma and shapes how queer people see themselves and their place in society: Who you are is up for debate.

This chips away at the safe spaces that organizations like the PGFFL work so hard to build. It wants its trans athletes to feel that not only are they part of a team, but they’re also part of the broader community, contributing everyday in meaningful ways.

“I know several trans people here in Phoenix that are public servants, they do a lot of work within the community,” Elmore says. “They’re teachers. They work at hospitals. And they’re doing so much just to get the bad end of the stick.”

In the face of that adversity, the league has only strengthened its commitment to its most vulnerable members.

“We really built up our trans members,” Loaiza says . “Ensuring that here was a safe space for them. When they step on the field or are around our community members, making sure they feel supported and seen.”

Carter adds, “Our mission remains strong. We stand with our trans athletes. I have several team members who are trans, we rally around them and we want to make sure that they feel the love when they’re in the PGFFL and when they’re not.”

Still, the hope for many is that inclusion won’t be confined to queer-specific leagues. The broader sports world has work to do.

“I do want gay leagues to grow,” Elmore says. “But I also feel like all leagues need to be more open and accepting, because at the end of the day, they’re coming to support your league … why make it harder for people to just play sports?”

At a time when simply existing can feel like resistance, the PGFFL wants to prove that sport, at its best, can be a place of healing, where community blossoms, confidence is restored and athletes are embraced exactly as they are.

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