Celebrating Pride in Action: Stories from the SPCA of Texas Team

Pride in Dallas week is a time to celebrate love, identity, and community—and  it’s an opportunity to spotlight the stories of those who live their values every day. At the SPCA of Texas, Pride is about authenticity, resilience, and the power of being seen.

This year, we’re honoring Pride in Dallas by sharing the journeys of five SPCA of Texas teammates and the animals who brighten their days and love them unconditionally: Coordinator, Adoptions AJ Holly; Supervisor, Behavior Programs Dre Floyd; Coordinator, Behavior Kristen Jurik; Representative, Customer Care Center Julio Jarmillo; and Veterinary Assistant Frida Cavazos.

Each of these staff members brings a unique story shaped by personal challenges, triumphs, and a deep commitment to caring for both people and animals. From navigating identity and family dynamics to building careers rooted in compassion, their experiences illuminate how living openly and authentically fuels both professional and personal fulfillment.

“My pets have been with me through my gender exploration. Looking back at old photos of us together is like a transition timeline! I rescued my cat, Ed, at 19 and my dog, Buddy, at 20, so we have been through some of my most formative years together. I would not have become the confident person I am today without them.” –AJ Holly

“My pets have been with me through my gender exploration. Looking back at old photos of us together is like a transition timeline! I rescued my cat Ed at 19 and my dog Buddy at 20, so we have been through some of my most formative years together. I would not have become the confident person I am today without them.” — AJ Holly

I’ve loved animals for as long as I can remember. My first cat came into my life when I was young—an orange kitten from a friend’s outdoor cat. My brother and I couldn’t agree on a name, so we jokingly settled on “Ronald Reagan.” Ronnie was wild, fearless, hilarious, and full of personality, never embarrassed by who he was. He’d skid across the hardwood floors, leap around corners, and eventually became the neighborhood cat who seemed to leave an orange legacy behind. That’s where my love of orange cats began.

When I was in college, a friend found kittens born under their porch and posted about them online. I said, “Give me one, and take the rest to the shelter.” That’s how Ed, another orange kitten, came into my life. He’s been my constant companion ever since—my “soul cat.” Ed’s the kind of cat who insists on being beside you—in the shower but not in the water, rather tucked behind the shower liner, fascinated by the drip of the sink but offended by a full-on faucet.

When I adopted him, I was quietly unspooling questions about who I was. Ed didn’t ask for labels. He wanted a lap, a warm hand, the ritual of being fed. That steady, uncensoring companionship let me breathe while I tried to sort out a complicated inside.

My family life didn’t make that sorting any easier. It was a religious household, and there wasn’t much room for messy questions about identity. I learned to tuck those questions away. In junior high and high school, I tried on a version of “girl” I didn’t feel, because that’s what the world expected, and because I didn’t yet know there were other ways to be whole.

A college gender studies class gave me the vocabulary I needed. We had an assignment to recall the first memory of experiencing gender; I went right to picture day at daycare, when my brother was given a tiny tux and I was forced into a dress. I locked myself in the bathroom and threw a tantrum until my parents promised ice cream if I smiled for the photo.

That memory made me see a pattern: the world treating me differently because of how I presented, and me trying to perform a version of myself that didn’t fit.

In that same class I met Matt—a trans man who shared small, big things about growing up misfitting gender expectations. Talking to him felt like finding an ally who also carried the map. His presence, along with reading and reflection, helped me understand that I didn’t fit neatly into “girl” or “boy.” I floated toward words like nonbinary and genderqueer and began trying pronouns on like clothes: some fit, some didn’t, and some felt like freedom.

It wasn’t an overnight thing to tell my family. I waited until I felt steadier in myself, until college felt less like a testing ground and more like a place where I could afford to be honest. When I finally came out, my dad surprised me. He was kinder and more open than I expected. He even took me to a drag show for Pride when I first told him, which was one of those small, astonishing acts of support that changed everything.

My mom moved more slowly; was a bit more hesitant, I think, in part, because my stepdad is very old fashioned and not quite as accepting as my mom. It has taken patience and many small conversations, but she’s coming around.

Through all that, my animals were constant. Buddy, the dog I adopted at 20, pulled me out of a shrinking life. I was living alone, keeping to myself, and Buddy’s insistence on walks, bathroom breaks, and simple play forced me into the world. He was my social lubricant at first: people at the apartment complex and dog park would come say hi, and I’d find myself making human friends because he needed them. Buddy taught me that vulnerability—asking someone to throw a ball, to share a laugh—was not the same thing as weakness.

Buddy has been just as important to my life as Ed, and the two of them are inseparable. Their love and support comes in many quiet ways, too—Ed kneading my jeans at 2 a.m. after a hard call with a parent, Buddy nudging me out of bed on mornings I didn’t want to move. And of course, Michael Cera, who I adopted recently, another orange cat, full of chaos and charm, and the perfect addition to my little family—demanding to be included in my lap even when he has no actual business being there.

When I finally started talking to therapists, one of the things that landed with both of us was how much my animals mattered to my mental health. My therapist wrote an emotional support letter because she saw how integral Buddy and Ed were to my stability. Reading that letter—and realizing it wasn’t a crutch but a recognition of real reliance—made me cry. My pets aren’t accessories; they are anchors. When I braced myself for potentially painful conversations with family, I put them beside me. When I chose to say, “This is who I am,” having Buddy’s steady breath or Ed’s warm weight in my lap made the world seem like it might hold me.

Work has become another place where animals and identity intersect. I started in kennels and shelters as a way to be around creatures who asked only for food, care, and patience. Later, becoming an adoption specialist with the SPCA of Texas felt like a full-circle moment—matching people to animals is, in a lot of ways, matchmaking for belonging. This is the first job where I felt safe enough to live openly—to test pronouns with co-workers, to come out slowly and be met with curiosity, kindness, and the occasional, beautiful surprise of real acceptance.

I don’t want to romanticize it. Coming out and finding acceptance is messy. There were moments of fear: a phone call where I expected the worst; memories of schoolyards where kids who were different were tormented; nights of panic when I wondered whether my family would hold me. There were also moments of grace: a father who clapped and took me to a show; a friend who let me test pronouns without judgment; a therapist who wrote a letter that felt like permission to depend on my animals.

Through it all, the animals have been teachers. Ronnie taught me that exuberance can be brave. Ed taught me that quiet, consistent love can hold a person while they change. Buddy taught me that companionship can pull you back into life. Michael Cera—ridiculous, affectionate, and chaotic—keeps reminding me that joy can be small and absurd and immediate.

If I have a single wish for people reading or listening to this story, it’s this: Notice the ways love shows up that don’t ask for anything in return. Pets taught me how to ask for care and how to receive it. They taught me to be honest with myself, to be brave, and to be patient with the people around me who need more time to learn. They didn’t give me answers about gender, but they gave me a place to be human while I figured it out.

I’m still figuring it out. I expect I always will be. But I’m learning that home isn’t just a place or a pronoun. It’s the ragged, warm, insistent presence of those who stay beside you when everything else is uncertain. For me, that home has paws—lots of paws, and the people who choose to sit with me while I find the words.

“Maybe my story will help others relate to how important how deep the human animal bond is. For many out there, especially in the LGBTQ+ family, that bond can be lifesaving for both human and animal.” –Dre Floyd

I grew up in a small coastal town in South Texas, where everything smelled of saltwater and diesel from the shrimp boats. My great-grandparents had ranch land in Central Texas, and my family carried all the weight of Texas history of ancestors at the Alamo, the Republic, all that legacy.

But for me, history didn’t live in the past. It lived in the animals that were always around me. Stray dogs, half-wild cats, gulls circling overhead. They were my refuge. My parents, strict and religious as they were, still took me to aquariums, zoos, and museums. They may not have understood me, but they gave me the gift of understanding animals.

By 13, I had begged my way into volunteering at the Texas State Aquarium, even though I was technically too young. I learned animal husbandry, rescued sea turtles, and rehabilitated raptors. I still remember my first osprey, tangled in fishing line, looking at me with those fierce golden eyes. That bird didn’t know who I was, didn’t care about my secrets, but it trusted my hands to free it. At 16, I was diving in tanks with sharks and barracudas.

People asked me if I was scared. I wasn’t. The ocean made sense to me in a way humans didn’t.

Animals weren’t just an interest for me—they were a lifeline. I didn’t always have the words for what I was feeling about myself, but I knew that with animals, I could just be. They didn’t ask me to explain. They didn’t judge.

When I hit college, I finally started to explore the parts of myself I had kept hidden back home. Coming out in the late ‘90s wasn’t easy, especially with a family that viewed queerness as something shameful. At home, I kept it quiet. For my own safety, for my own sanity. But on campus, I found people like me.

For the first time, I felt the relief of belonging, of saying, “This is who I am,” without fear of being cast out. Still, the weight of keeping secrets from my family hurt. There were nights I poured that ache into my work with animals, because caring for them grounded me.

German shepherds, especially, became touchstones in my life. My first real bond was with Tiger, my grandfather’s dog—a fierce protector who somehow decided I was his person. That bond taught me that love could be protective and loyal, even when the world felt uncertain. Later, dogs like Fenrir and Revan weren’t just companions; they were family. During hard times—financial struggles, depression, feeling like I didn’t fit anywhere—those dogs gave me a reason to keep going. They needed me, and I needed them. I bought kibble before I bought groceries for myself.

That’s where animals saved me, again and again. My dogs—Fenrir, named after the wolf of Norse myth, then Revan, now Lucian—became my constants. Fenrir was my partner through young adulthood, grounding me when I could barely ground myself. Losing him gutted me. Revan, my heart dog, carried me through my darkest years, even when depression hollowed me out. When he died of liver cancer, I thought grief might finish what despair had started. But then came Lucian. Nervous, battered, untrusting. He needed me in a way that required me to live. In saving him, I saved myself.

I like to think Revan sent Lucian my way because our connection was immediate. Lucian reminded me again why I do this work: the human-animal bond is not just comfort, it’s survival. For queer folks like me, who’ve had to fight for love and acceptance, that bond can mean the difference between despair and resilience.

When the 2008 recession killed the science jobs I’d dreamed of, I drifted into retail, into Whole Foods, into years of pretending seafood sales and travel were enough. They weren’t. Depression dug deep, but my dogs kept me tethered. They were my reason to get up.

Coming back to animal care at the SPCA of Texas felt like exhaling after years of holding my breath. My girlfriend said she saw the light return—the laughter, the softness, the energy she fell in love with. In this work, I’m not just feeding or training or caring. I’m healing. I’m bridging worlds. Teaching dogs they have agency. Teaching people that compassion is a language. Living out loud in a way my younger self never believed was possible.

“Animals have always accepted me as I am.” –Kristen Jurik

I grew up in Mesquite, Texas, a place where religion was everywhere and queerness felt impossible. By the time I was 12, I knew I was different. I realized I was attracted to more than just one gender, but when I came out at 14, my parents told me something I’ll never forget: “Bisexuality doesn’t exist. You have to pick a side.”

So, I said I was a lesbian. It wasn’t the truth, but it felt like the safest thing I could do. The real truth was so confusing, so heavy, especially in a place where being anything other than straight meant whispers, judgment, and sometimes danger. I struggled with my mental health. I felt like who I was—who I am—was wrong.

Through all of that, I had Tucker, my dog. He wasn’t just a pet. He was my protector, my best friend, my safe place when home felt unsafe. My mom could be abusive, and when things got bad, Tucker was there. I would curl into him, cry into his fur, whisper things I couldn’t tell anyone else. Losing him when I was 16 was the hardest loss of my life—harder than the assaults I endured, harder than the heartbreaks, harder than the health issues I’ve faced. He was my lifeline through the darkest years, and when he was gone, I felt like a piece of myself had gone with him.

After Tucker, I tried to rebuild. In college, I adopted two rats, LaFawnduh and Lemmiwinks. They went everywhere with me, even tucked inside my shirt when I ran errands. When I lost them suddenly — taken in a breakup I didn’t choose—it broke me again. But like always, animals drew me forward, helped me start over.

I bounced between jobs—Walmart, insurance, tattooing—until I found Petco, where I trained dogs. I wanted to work with the animals, and I wanted to help people so after a year of dog training I came to the SPCA as a kennel tech. That led into vet tech position and now I’m working in behavior support. The work is hard, and the losses sting, but I can’t imagine doing anything else.

These animals give me purpose, and I fight every day to give them safety, compassion, and comfort—the things I wish someone had given me more freely when I was younger.

Now I live in a studio apartment with Jason, my goofy black cat who follows me everywhere and chirps at the birds in the window, and Poppy, my hedgehog. I also foster Neville, a wobbly, funny cat with a heart murmur, and I even have a swan at the park who’s decided I’m his partner. I laugh sometimes—I must be an animal magnet.

I’m still bisexual. Still single. Still figuring things out. My parents are awkward but no longer cruel; they make jokes, they ask who I’m dating, they don’t fully get it, but they don’t push me away, either. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than I once feared it would be.

Animals have been the thread through it all—Tucker holding me in my teens, Jason curling up with me now, every shelter dog I’ve loved and let go, every fragile creature who needed me. They’re why I write children’s books, why I dream of becoming a hematologist, why I believe in resilience.

Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: love doesn’t need conditions. It doesn’t need you to “pick a side.” It’s real, it’s messy, it heals in ways words can’t. And animals—they’ve been the purest teachers of that truth in my life.

“With the rising wave of homophobia, transphobia, and queer panic, I feel like it’s more important than ever to be proud of being queer. I’ve heard of so many people being afraid to be publicly queer and I feel like if I can be out and proud, then hopefully I can reach someone else and show them that they’re not alone.” –Julio Jarmillo

I’ve spent almost my whole life in Dallas. Aside from a single semester at college in New York, which was a crash course in snow, distance from family, and being on my own. I’ve always been rooted here. I came back home quickly, but I don’t regret going. I like to challenge myself, to try things, even if they don’t last.

Before I landed at the SPCA of Texas, I worked a string of jobs—furniture rental, temp work, just bouncing around. Then one day I got an email about a short-term contract here. I didn’t even hesitate. Within weeks, I was in the building, answering calls, learning the ropes. By February, I was full-time. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

I didn’t grow up with pets. My family lived in apartments, money was tight, and animals weren’t really an option. Sometimes I fed stray cats, but I never had a pet of my own until 2018, when my sister brought home a little black cat we named Onyx. He was the start of something new—a kind of family we hadn’t had before. Then came Oreo, our black-and-white cat, and later Ollie, a scarred-up puppy found near a dumpster.

Finally, there’s Chemo, our Husky. He came into our lives when my younger brother was hospitalized with leukemia. While he was in treatment, an emotional support dog named Aspen used to visit the unit, and we saw how much it lifted my brother’s spirits. After he came home, we adopted Chemo, and that dog was everything to him.

Losing my brother when he was only 20 shattered us. Chemo, Ollie, Onyx, Oreo—they all were in the room, grieving in their own ways. Animals feel more than people give them credit for. Chemo laid his head on my lap like he understood exactly what was happening. In those moments, our pets weren’t just companions; they were family holding us together.

I’ve always been the quieter one, the softer one. My dad used to tell me to “be more of a man,” to toughen up, to play basketball, to fit into his version of masculinity. But that was never me. In New York, I started painting my nails, doing little things that felt truer. It took me a while to name it, but eventually, I realized I wasn’t straight.

The first time I noticed was at the hospital, when I got flustered around a guy at the reception desk. It surprised me—but it also freed me. With the help of a friend, I came out as bisexual.

Telling my family was another matter. My mom was accepting. My stepdad too. My sister…well, she never said the words, but she makes a point of showing that she supports queer people. It’s not direct, but I’ve learned to take her meaning. My dad’s not in my life anymore. Maybe that’s for the best.

Through it all, my pets have been my safe place. They don’t care about labels. They don’t ask questions. They’re just there—warm, affectionate, grounding me when I’m drained. Ollie, especially, can read me like a book. If I’m tired or down, she presses herself against me until I remember that love is unconditional.

That’s what keeps me here, too. At the SPCA of Texas. I get to help people and their animals find that same bond—the one that heals, that saves, that makes the hard days survivable. In a world that still tries to tear people like me down, every moment of joy, every queer person who laughs loudly, every dog who goes home loved—that feels like an act of defiance.

I’m Julio. I’m 29. I’m queer. I’m someone who feeds the cats, comforts the anxious Husky, and throws treats around the house to make leaving easier. I’m someone who lost a brother but gained a deeper understanding of love. And I’m someone who believes, fiercely, that animals make us more human.

The truth is, animals gave me belonging before humans ever did. They loved me without conditions, without confusion, without questions about gender or sexuality. They saw me. They kept me alive long enough for me to see myself.

For me, the human–animal bond isn’t about companionship. It’s about survival. It’s about becoming. It’s about finally stepping into the person I was always meant to be—with a dog at my side.

“I love my dogs, and dogs in general. They have always been part of why I chose to follow this path in life.” –Frida Cavazos

When I think back to childhood, I don’t remember clinging to dolls the way my mom might’ve hoped. She bought me Barbies, but I lined them up in a corner and forgot them. What I really wanted were stuffed animals, plastic horses, little wolf figurines I could arrange on my shelves. I wanted a world where animals were the main characters. They were my pride and joy.

Eventually, after years of begging, my mom gave in and got me my first dog—a Dachshund named Oscar Mayer. I was in third grade. I’ll never forget introducing myself in fourth grade and proudly announcing, “I have a wiener dog named Oscar Mayer.” Kids teased me, but I didn’t care. He was mine.

Stubborn as Dachshunds are, he taught me patience, laughter, and that first spark of what would grow into a lifelong bond with animals.

By high school, I knew I wanted to work with dogs. Then came Tiny, a Cattle Dog–Shepherd mix who completely reshaped my world. I had no idea what a “high drive dog” meant until she came barreling into my life. She demanded time, focus, and consistency. I’d come home from school, drop my backpack, and spend hours outside running her, teaching her tricks, building her confidence. We even competed together in little competitions. Tiny wasn’t just a pet; she was my mirror. I poured myself into her, and she gave me back grounding, stability, and a sense of purpose.

At the same time, I was trying to figure myself out. Who I liked. Who I was. Where I belonged. In those years of uncertainty, Tiny became my anchor. When everything inside me felt conflicted, when I wasn’t ready to confide in friends or family, I could sit with her and know I wasn’t alone. She gave me the confidence to keep going. Looking back, I think she’s the reason I didn’t give up on myself when doubt and fear were so loud.

Then came Diablo, a German Shepherd mix who was terrified of people when I first met him. He hid under beds, avoided hands, wanted nothing to do with the world. I hadn’t planned on keeping him, but once I saw the walls he had built—and how, slowly, he let me help him take them down—I knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Funny thing is, he took to my partner right away, like he had been waiting for her all along.

Watching him grow from anxious and withdrawn to curious and affectionate has been like watching my own reflection—the slow, brave process of opening up, of trusting, of choosing love.

Through all of this, I was wrestling with my own truth. I dated guys, tried to fit the mold, but something was always missing. It wasn’t until after one relationship ended—when marriage was on the table and I knew in my bones I couldn’t do it—that I finally admitted to myself that I wasn’t straight.

A few months ago, I told my mom. I was terrified. I’d heard my dad say things in the past that made me hold my tongue, but I couldn’t hold it anymore. On the drive home one day, I told her.

She looked at me and said she already knew. She told me she wasn’t going to be like the parents who turned their backs, that she was my mom and that didn’t change. I think I exhaled years of fear in that moment. My sister already knew. My dad doesn’t, not yet, but maybe he does in his own quiet way. For now, it’s enough that my mom embraced me.

Animals have been the thread through it all: Oscar Mayer, my silly first love; Tiny, my soulmate dog who taught me devotion and discipline; Diablo, my anxious boy who showed me growth is possible; and now the cats I’ve adopted with my partner, who fill our home with mischief and joy. Each one has been more than a pet. They’ve been teachers, healers, and companions in the moments when I wasn’t sure who I was becoming.

If I hadn’t had my animals, I don’t know where I’d be. With them, I’ve built a life where I can be honest, open, and proud. And that feels like the best kind of home.

Back Row (L-R): SPCA of Texas Shelter Pup Judy (recently adopted!); Dre Floyd; Julio Jarmillo; Frida Cavazos. Front Row (L-R) Kristen Jurik; AJ Holly and their pup Buddy. courtesy SPCA of Texas

Through these stories, you’ve met individuals who have found strength in community, support in unexpected places, and purpose in helping animals while advocating for inclusiveness. Their journeys show us that Pride is not just a week of celebration. It’s a year-round commitment to empathy, courage, and creating spaces where everyone can thrive.

The dedication to animals these SPCA of Texas team members demonstrate mirrors their dedication to living proudly, authentically, and with heart.

Much like Pride in Dallas, the SPCA of Texas celebrates LGBTQ+ diversity and inclusion and is dedicated to creating a workplace where everyone proudly can be themselves. Pride is more than just a single event—it’s a year-round commitment to fostering inclusivity, celebration, and community.