Community is one of those words people throw around casually, but not everyone believes in it.

Years ago, when I was in my twenties, I crossed paths with someone older who insisted that “we didn’t really have a community” here, meaning the Bear community in Toronto. He said it often — sometimes directly, sometimes through cynicism dripping into every conversation. I never bought into his view, but because he’d spent so long as a community builder (tired, frustrated, burnt out), part of me wanted to understand him.

But honestly? He was a real downer.

The problem wasn’t the community — it was his mindset.

He saw only flaws: the drama, the differences, the politics, the personalities. I’m not sure what he expected — I’ve been out 29 years and I’ve seen plenty of change 

Back then, his cynicism hit me in a place I didn’t have language for yet. I felt talked down to, like believing in community made me naïve. For a while, it made me question myself — but the older I got, the more I understand that his bitterness wasn’t wisdom. It was burnout. And chose not carrying that forward.

I think he failed or refused to see what was directly in front of him — the humanity underneath. The connection. The small but meaningful networks of people looking out for each other. The subcultures within the subcultures that kept the heartbeat going.

His negativity didn’t inspire me — it drained me. It dimmed his own light.

It made me step back and observe for a while. What I eventually realized, though, is that I already knew what I believed:

We have community.
We will always have community.
Community doesn’t disappear just because someone can’t see it.

I’ve watched a lot of people move through queer spaces nitpicking, deconstructing, criticizing, pointing out what’s missing, what’s broken, what’s not “good enough” to count.

But here’s the thing: Community doesn’t arrive fully formed

We build it.
We shape it.
We choose it.

A handful of people in a bar is still a community.
A group of queers who only meet once a month is still a community.
A circle of kinksters with different viewpoints is still a community.
A messy, imperfect mix of humans trying to show up for each other — that’s community at its core.

Cynicism kills possibility..

It turns every room into a mirror of someone’s bitterness.
It pushes away the very connections people claim don’t exist.

It’s that’s something I refuse to participate in.

I’ve seen firsthand what negativity does — not just to the room, but to the person holding it.

It shrinks them.
It isolates them.
It colours everything they see.

His example showed me exactly what I don’t want.

I choose to see queer community — especially leather/kink community — for what it actually is:

A network of relationships, friendships, chosen families, and spaces that overlap, intersect, and support one another.

Clusters of people, spaces, and experiences that overlap and support one another.

Some tight-knit.
Some casual.
Some unexpected.
All real.

I’ve always tried to add something good to that network.

Something steady.
Something warm.
Something that contributes rather than corrodes.

I’ve had my frustrations like anyone does, and there have been moments I stepped back. But I’ve always found my way back to contributing something good to that network.

Community doesn’t appear out of nowhere.

We create it through how we show up.

I recently went on a three-day business trip, something I haven’t done much of since switching roles at work. The reduction in travel has been a blessing in some ways, but I also miss what it gives me: new places, new perspectives, new people, and the small jolts of life that come from being somewhere different.

Travel does feed me.

On the flip side, it also costs something that most people don’t see.

On social media, travel looks glamorous: the occasional upgrade, the nice hotel, the meals, the novelty of meeting people I’d never cross paths with otherwise.

What doesn’t show is the heaviness — the exhaustion, the dips in mood after long days, the loneliness of a hotel room when you’re too drained to be social but craving connection at the same time. And then the crash when you get home: wanting to go out, but feeling like your body and mind are tapped out.

It’s this experience that I want to focus on in this writing.

Before the pandemic, I spent a full year living in the UK — my most intense travel period since I started consulting in 2002. From March 2020 to October 2023, I hadn’t been away for work at all and since, only doing one trip a year.

In that time, something became clear to me: I never really put down roots in Toronto.

People know me. I have friends here. But there’s a difference between being known and being connected.

And for a long time, I wasn’t connected.

After COVID, connection became one of the most important things in my life. Not surface-level, small-talk connection — real connection. The kind that feels grounded, mutual, and meaningful. I know where that need comes from, and I choose to honour it now instead of minimizing it. I choose to honour and no longer minimize my need for real connection.

When I went to The Black Eagle here in Toronto, I realized I barely knew anyone. I stood there like a wallflower, and it didn’t feel good. I needed a space where I could meet people in a way that wasn’t superficial or transactional.

About a year ago, I found a group of guys who swim on Mondays. Honestly, it’s been the best thing I’ve discovered in this city. I love swimming — and I love the company. Being around like-minded people in a space that’s not loud, not chaotic, not overstimulating has been grounding in the best way.

And the bonus? When I do go to the Eagle for Bear nights, BLUF, or other events, I now see familiar faces. I feel at home. I feel part of the fabric instead of watching it from the outside.

Now I’m looking at the next step: Building my actual place in this city.

For years, I’ve been here physically, and at times, during my titleholder year, I even had a bit of a public persona. But underneath, I’d retreated. I’d hidden. I’d dimmed my light for reasons that were real at the time but no longer serve me.

I’m ready to be present again.
To show up.
To stop hiding and let myself be seen — in a way that feels grounded and authentic.

In short:
I’m ready to just be.