Dani Sophia, the new guitarist in Till Lindemann’s band, is a self-confident transwoman. However, this time she is very critical of Pride Month.

Dani Sophia, the electrifying new guitarist in Till Lindemann’s solo band, is no stranger to the spotlight or scrutiny. With over 100,000 followers on Instagram, the young trans woman has captivated a global audience with her technical brilliance, especially her fluid, virtuosic “sweeping” technique that shimmers across metal riffs like a blade on water. On 13 June, she will debut with Lindemann at Rockfest in Turku, Finland—an entrance as dramatic as her talent deserves.
But while Sophia’s stage presence is unapologetically fierce, her stance on Pride Month is unexpectedly subdued, even ambivalent. On 1 June, she greeted her followers with a brisk “Happy Pride Month”—then, almost instantly, qualified it. “To be completely honest: I don’t want to wave flags in the streets,” she wrote in an Instagram story. “I just want to be left alone, to play my guitar, and to live my life without laws constantly being made against people like me.”
Her words echo a growing disquiet among queer people for whom celebration feels hollow amidst legislative backsliding and social hostility. In the United States, anti-trans legislation has escalated with alarming speed, and parts of Europe—Hungary among them—mirror this trend. The tension Sophia names is not just political but existential. “I don’t need people holding parades for me,” she said. “I don’t need Capitol buildings with large Pride flags flying. I don’t need limited-edition rainbow Apple Watch bands or rainbow snow globes.”
Sophia’s remarks are not anti-Pride; they are anti-performance. She resists the corporatisation of queer visibility—the rainbow-washing of suffering—and voices a quiet, deeply personal rebellion: the right to live without being forced into a spectacle of survival. Her critique is not without tenderness. On Trans Day of Visibility, she posted about “motherly love” for her community, calling for compassion and mutual understanding. But now, as Pride Month begins, she shifts tone—not with bitterness, but fatigue.
“Just scroll on your phone for more than three seconds and you’ll understand,” she adds, alluding to the relentless tide of transphobic rhetoric online and off. Her closing words are a blend of defiance, affection, and something like weary hope: “Happy Pride, may you all be left fucking alone and be able to live the way you want.” Then, with a wink, she wishes her followers “safety, love, support, fearlessness, freedom—and a fat ass,” the latter being less vanity than a meme-ified metaphor for self-love.
In a month filled with noise—marches, hashtags, rainbow ads—Dani Sophia offers something quieter and more urgent: a plea to be allowed to exist. Not celebrated, not tokenised—just free.
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