Help Us Bring Bisexual Killjoy to Creating Change

Our workshop is in. Now we need a way to get to D.C. without selling a kidney.

I’m going to be honest with you: I really, really did not want to write this post. I would rather fold my laundry and put it away on the same day. I would rather take the T on a Sunday. I would rather explain the Kinsey scale to straight men at Thanksgiving dinner. But here we are.

Because this January, I’m supposed to go to Creating Change 2026 in Washington, D.C., on behalf of Bisexual Killjoy.

I’ll admit that being a queer person voluntarily going to D.C. right now feels like signing up for a haunted house where the jump scare is “democracy.” But our workshop was accepted (!), and there is something powerful about showing up in a space that (despite its deep, deep flaws) still shapes national LGBTQ+ organizing.

And, darlings, not only am I going to Creating Change (one of the oldest LGBTQ+ conferences in America), I’m going to speak. And that actually means something. To understand why, we need to talk about what Creating Change is and why a bi+ workshop being accepted is not just a scheduling win, but a meaningful moment in LGBTQ+ history.

Why Creating Change Matters (and Why Our Spot Matters)

Creating Change isn’t some random conference where people show up to collect tote bags (though I imagine there will be some of that). It’s one of the oldest and most influential movement-building spaces in the LGBTQ+ world. It began in 1988 a year after the 1987 National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights (you’ll notice a theme) when the message to queer people was clear: we have to “create change” ourselves.

In the aftermath of that march, organizers were flooded with requests for resources, training, and support. So they built a national conference where people could learn from one another, strategize together, and build a stronger, more coordinated movement.

That conference became Creating Change.

After that march, organizers were flooded with requests for resources, training, and support. So they built a national conference where people could learn from each other, share strategies, and strengthen the movement.

The first Creating Change had 300 attendees. Today, it draws over 3,500 people: leaders, organizers, activists, volunteers, queer youth, elders, and movement workers of every stripe. It’s a five-day intensive on community building, policy, justice, advocacy, and queer liberation. It is where the movement sets goals, reaffirms values, and builds alliances.

It’s not just an event. It’s a cornerstone of LGBTQ+ organizing. It’s where the movement sets its priorities for the year. It’s where strategy is built and alliances are formed.

And here’s what I need to emphasize clearly: Bi+ people do go to Creating Change. We’re speakers, organizers, attendees, volunteers. Our organizations and projects exist because bi+ elders and activists fought relentlessly for that space. They insisted bisexuality was not optional. They pushed open doors that were held shut. They demanded room for our stories, needs, and lives.

I am standing on their shoulders.

Bi+ organizers, researchers, storytellers, and community workers have been attending Creating Change for decades. They carved out bi+ presence in a space where we were often an afterthought.

So when I say our Bisexual Killjoy workshop being accepted is meaningful, I don’t mean, “I’m here to save the movement.” Absolutely not, I’m not an egomaniac.

What I mean is this: It’s surreal that two people who started a bisexual+ podcast less than two years ago are now being recognized as people with something to say.

Not because we’re special. Not because we’re the only ones doing this work. But because we are now part of the lineage. That’s why showing up matters.

Even today, LGBTQ+ conferences rarely center bisexual people. Bi+ workshops are not the default in national organizing spaces. They don’t headline programs or get quoted in the press. And yet, bisexual people make up the majority of the LGBTQIA+ community.

Bi+ health disparities? Often ignored. Bi+ history? Overlooked. Bi+ experiences? Treated like optional seasoning instead of main ingredients.

So the fact that Creating Change said yes to a bi+ workshop—our workshop—is rare. It says, “Your work belongs here.” And bisexual+ organizers don’t hear that nearly enough.

Capitalism Enters the Chat

Here’s the honest truth: the $450 presenter rate is the discounted ticket price. It’s the lowest tier available without qualifying for the Solidarity Partner rate for folks making under $50,000 a year. It’s meant as a “thank you” for presenting, but it’s still a significant expense, especially for grassroots organizers and independent creators like me.

And the ticket is only one part of the full picture.

The conference uses a tiered pricing system that ranges from $250 on the lowest end to $5,500 on the highest. Many of those tiers are built for people attending with employer support, university funding, or nonprofit budgets. For those attendees, the registration fee is reimbursed or written off as professional development.

For someone attending on their own dime, the remaining costs add up quickly.

The conference hotel where nearly all programming takes place comes to about $1,000 for five days. That’s the negotiated rate, which is reasonable by D.C. standards, but still a lot to pay upfront.

A round-trip flight from Boston is around $250, assuming I book early and choose whatever flight is cheapest, no matter how inconvenient.

And then there’s food, transportation within the city, coffee, water, and the simple act of keeping yourself functioning for five days, costs that quickly reach another $300–$400.

When everything is put together, attending the conference looks like:

• $1,000 Hotel

• $450 Presenter ticket

• $300 Food, coffee, local travel

• $250 Flight

Total: about $2,000.

For many attendees, this cost is absorbed by their institution. For me, it isn’t. I’m not traveling on behalf of Harvard. I’m not funded by a nonprofit with a professional development budget. I’m not being sponsored by a foundation.

I’m going as a bi+ community organizer. As someone whose work has grown from love, curiosity, spite, research, and humor. As someone who believes bisexual visibility belongs in national spaces, and knows firsthand why it matters.

This is why I’m fundraising $2,000: not out of scarcity, but out of transparency. This is simply what it costs to show up.

Why I’m Still Asking

I hate asking for money. I hate that queer community work has become a pay-to-play system. I hate that the people doing everyday, no-budget, community-saving work often can’t access the rooms where national decisions are made. And I hate the quiet truth that keeps circling in the back of my head: It feels wrong that the communities most harmed by oppression are expected to foot the bill for participating in the fight against it.

We are the ones living the realities that statistics flatten. We are the ones providing care in group chats and late-night phone calls. We are the ones building queer community without institutional support, often without even institutional acknowledgment.

And yet, we’re expected to self-finance our way into the rooms where decisions are made about us.

That makes me furious. But it also makes me determined. Because I want to be in that room. Because bi+ people deserve representation in national organizing spaces. Because the work we’re doing with Bisexual Killjoy matters, even when queer institutions pretend everything under the bisexuality+ umbrella is optional.

And because if we’re going to build the world we want, we actually need to infiltrate the rooms that weren’t built for us.

Creating Change for Community

I don’t want this to feel like a burden or an awkward plea. I want it to feel like community. So I’m turning it into art.

I’m thrifting an outfit for Creating Change, and every single person who donates will have their first name hand-painted onto my dress.

If I’m going to walk into a conference full of “thought leaders,” I want to be wearing the literal names of the people who make our work possible. In a way, you’ll be there, too.

If we meet our $2,000 goal, you’ll send me to D.C. with travel covered, fees paid, and a bi+ armor piece made entirely of community. If we go over, we’ll share the excess with other bi+ orgs who deserve a strong start to 2026.

Here’s the link to donate: https://ko-fi.com/bisexualkilljoy/goal?g=2

If you can give, thank you. If you can share, thank you. If you can’t do either, please know that just reading this means you’re part of the work.

And now I’m going to lie down because asking for money is exhausting and capitalism is a curse.

With love,
Bailey