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.