I wasn’t running out of experiences. I was beginning to ask more of them.

Last week I wrote about one of the central ideas behind the Queer Sovereignty Method: that knowing ourselves and expressing ourselves aren’t always the same thing. Often the gap isn’t knowledge—it’s capacity. The capacity to stay present, connected, and authentic when it matters most. That got me thinking about where that realization came from in my own life.

For much of my twenties, I learned to manage my sexuality. Right out of college, I had a high-level government position requiring a top security clearance, followed by work in finance and corporate environments where it simply felt wiser to keep parts of my life private. I wasn’t ashamed of being gay, but I was careful. My sexuality occupied a relatively small corner of my life.

Then, at twenty-nine, after grad school, I moved to San Francisco.

Looking back, I realize how green I was. I’d dated men, had relationships, and been sexually active, but I had never encountered the extraordinary world of queer culture that was waiting for me here. Leather events, circuit weekends, kink communities, sex-positive spaces, chosen families, conversations about power and intimacy—it felt like someone had opened the door to an entirely new world.

After years of carefully managing myself, there was something profoundly liberating about stepping into communities that celebrated exploration, pleasure, openness, and permission. I embraced it wholeheartedly, and I don’t regret those years for a second. They brought me lifelong friendships, unforgettable adventures, and helped me become far more comfortable in my own skin.

Looking back now, I can see my own journey unfolding in stages. It began with constraint, then permission, followed by many years of joyful exploration and intensity, and eventually something I never expected: discernment. That shift didn’t happen because I became less interested in pleasure or adventure. If anything, I had access to more of both than I’d ever imagined possible.

There came a point, though, where I honestly wasn’t sure what “more” even meant. Over twenty-five years I traveled to leather events around the world, spent weekends at circuit parties and kink gatherings, built lifelong friendships, had extraordinary sexual experiences, and explored parts of myself I never knew existed. I don’t know that I could have squeezed much more into those years.

What I eventually realized was that I wasn’t running out of experiences. I was beginning to ask more of them.

I started wondering whether I had become good at pursuing stimulation without asking what I was actually hoping it would give me. Looking back, I don’t think intensity was ever the destination. I think I was hoping those experiences would leave me feeling more connected, more joyful, more fully expressed, more alive. Sometimes they absolutely did. But I slowly realized that another remarkable weekend, another encounter, or another adventure wasn’t necessarily bringing me closer to those deeper experiences.

That realization stayed with me. I began noticing the stories we told one another after weekends away. We celebrated how wild the party had been, how intense the scene was, how many men we’d connected with, how little we’d slept, and how much we’d managed to experience in a few short days. There was real joy in those stories, and I still smile hearing them.

But I gradually became just as interested in the stories we weren’t telling. Did I leave feeling more connected to myself? What was I actually hoping these experiences would give me? What, exactly, was I hungry for?

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with stimulation or intensity. Sometimes it’s exactly what we’re seeking. Those experiences can be playful, exhilarating, healing, and deeply connecting. But I slowly became less interested in accumulating experiences and more interested in integrating them. Less interested in how stimulating an experience was and more curious about whether it actually nourished me.

That shift has quietly shaped almost everything I’ve explored since. It became the foundation of my work with Qasa Retreat Center over the past two years and ultimately inspired me to create the Queer Sovereignty Method.

This week, I’d invite you to carry one simple question with you.

Whether you’re heading out for a date, a hookup, a dance floor, dinner with friends, a kink event, or simply spending a quiet evening alone, pause for just a moment beforehand and ask yourself:

What am I hoping this experience will give me?

You don’t need to judge the answer or change your plans. Maybe you’re looking for connection. Maybe joy. Maybe adventure. Maybe affirmation. Maybe intimacy. Maybe rest. There are no wrong answers.

The invitation is simply to notice. Sometimes becoming conscious of what we’re seeking is the first step toward discovering what truly nourishes us.