We spent an entire series talking about toxic relationship patterns. About power and control, chosen family, money, sex, community, and what healthy actually looks and feels like. And underneath almost every single conversation was the same thing, whether we named it directly or not.

Shame.

We talk a lot in therapy about the stories we carry. About how the messages we absorbed early, about who we are, whether we belong, whether our futures are worth investing in, shape the decisions we make long after the people who handed us those messages are out of the room.

I have been sitting with this conversation for a while now. Because what Alex Garner brought into this week’s Episode of My Therapist is Out! was not just decades of advocacy experience or a sharp political analysis, though he brought both of those things. What he brought was the particular clarity that comes from a life fully inhabited.

Most of us spend years figuring out who we are. Coming out, naming our identities, finding language for the parts of ourselves that the dominant culture never had words for. But there is a whole other layer of work that does not always get the same attention: figuring out what we actually want.

I have been in a lot of queer spaces. Some of them changed my life. Some of them left me feeling more alone than when I walked in. And I have spent a lot of time thinking about what makes the difference.

We spend a lot of time in queer spaces talking about romantic relationships. Who we love, how we love, what healthy love looks like when the world has spent so long telling us our love doesn't count. And that conversation matters.

Somewhere along the way, "toxic" became the word we reach for when something in a relationship doesn't feel right. And look, that instinct is usually pointing at something real.

As a queer therapist, one of the questions I get asked most often, in sessions, in community spaces, sometimes just in conversation, is some version of: Is this relationship toxic, or am I just being too sensitive?

Last weekend, a few of us at OSTC had the chance to volunteer at the Know Other Festival, and it was one of those experiences that reminds you why community matters so deeply.

As we roll into spring and the longer days of summer, it’s easy to feel pulled in a hundred different directions. Between work, relationships, activism, and personal growth, it can start to feel like you’re being asked to do everything all at once.

At the No Kings 3 Day Rally, we stood alongside community—organizers, activists, healers, and folks who are just trying to make sense of the world we’re living in. There was a mix of emotions in the air: anger, grief, determination… and something else that I think often gets overlooked.

Hope.

And for so many TGI2+ folks, that kind of visibility doesn’t come easily—it’s something you fight for, negotiate, or sometimes decide isn’t safe to reach for at all.

Community care is the practice of recognizing that our well-being is interconnected. It moves beyond the idea that healing is an individual responsibility and instead asks: How do we show up for each other?

What Is Identity-Based Harm? Identity-based harm refers to violence, discrimination, microaggressions, and systemic barriers that target who someone is — their gender identity, sexual orientation, race, ability, immigration status, religion, or neurodivergence

When we talk about generational strength, many of us are taught to think only about bloodlines—family trees, ancestors we’re biologically tied to, stories passed down through last names and DNA. But for queer people, that definition has always been incomplete.

Identity-based harm isn’t only something we think about—it’s something that stays with us, shaping how safe it feels to be in our bodies. Identity-based harm can feel deeply personal, but it’s rooted in systemic marginalization that impacts our sense of self-worth and belonging.

As a queer therapist, I want to name something I see over and over again in the therapy room—and in our communities: when people are harmed because of who they are, that harm doesn’t just live in the mind. It lives in the body. And over time, it quietly erodes our sense of belonging.

Identity-based harm can show up in ways both overt and subtle, shaping our lives, our relationships, and our sense of safety in the world. Policies, laws, and institutional practices that criminalize or erase LGBTQ+ identities can reinforce these wounds, creating cumulative effects on mental health that ripple through communities and generations.

There’s something powerful about finally admitting to yourself: I want to live authentically. I want relationships where I’m cared for as much as I care for others. I want to breathe easier. I want to be free.

Living as a neurodivergent queer adult comes with its own set of challenges—and its own opportunities for creativity, resilience, and joy. Let’s discuss realistic strategies for tackling daily responsibilities without burning out, and ways to advocate for yourself at school or work without fear of stigma or discrimination.