What You'll Find Here (And What I'll Never Pretend)

For everyone who's exhausted from performing "okay" when they're anything but

I've been writing here for a while, but something shifted recently. Not in the world. In me.

I sat at my desk at 3 am last week, staring at drafts that felt too polished, too careful. Too sanitized. And I knew I couldn't do it anymore—pretend that healing happens in neat little packages or that my professional knowledge somehow makes me immune to the messy parts.

You know those rare conversations where someone finally drops the mask? When a friend who always seems put-together suddenly admits they're barely hanging on? That catch in their voice, that moment of raw truth.

It changes something in the air. Makes the room safer, somehow.

That's what I want this space to be.

The truth about who this is for

Some of you have followed me from the beginning. Others just stumbled in here yesterday.

Either way—you didn't come for another list of self-care tips that make you feel worse for not having the energy to follow them. You didn't come to be told that your queer anxiety is just like everyone else's anxiety, when we both know that's BS.

You came because something in you is still looking for the words you haven't heard yet.

This is for the ones who've smiled through family dinners where your "lifestyle" was carefully not mentioned. Who've felt shame surge through your body in moments that should have been joyful. Who've wondered if therapy itself is just another place where you have to translate your experience into something more palatable.

I see you. I've been you. Some days, I still am you.

What I'm actually going to share here

This is a space for the messy middle. For the 4 am questions. For the things we don't post on Instagram. The queer grief that doesn't fit into acceptable narratives. The small victories that feel enormous because of what you had to overcome to get there. The shame that still shows up when you thought you'd moved past it.

It's a mental health space that acknowledges the world we actually live in—not the one in the therapy brochures.

I'm a 45-year-old therapist, yes. But I'm also someone who once sat in my car outside my office, unable to walk in because panic had frozen me solid. Who's both given and received the diagnosis. Who still sometimes catches myself rehearsing the "coming out" speech before meeting new people, even now.

Going forward, I'll write about things I rarely say out loud. How I hit rock bottom and didn't bounce—just landed hard and stayed there longer than the inspirational stories allow for. The specific words my shame-brain uses against me. What it felt like the first time I let myself be visibly queer, and how it still doesn't feel completely safe.

Some of these posts will be public. Some will only go to paid subscribers. None of them will offer ten easy solutions or promise transformation if you just try harder.

What I refuse to give you

I won't pretend I've arrived at some enlightened state you should aspire to. I won't package complex trauma into digestible steps. I won't use therapy jargon to create distance between my humanity and yours.

And I absolutely will not suggest that any worthwhile healing happens without mess, time, support, and radical honesty—often with a professional who sees you clearly.

This isn't therapy. But it is a space where the things we actually say in therapy can breathe.

For those who want to go deeper—who need the audio diaries where my voice breaks, or the tools I use with clients who carry the same wounds—there's a paid subscription. But even if you never spend a dollar here, I want this to be a place where you exhale and think, "Hell yes, someone finally said it."

There's something that shifts when we name the things we're afraid will make us unlovable. The queer experiences. The mental health struggles. The 3 am thoughts. Naming them doesn't fix everything—therapy taught me that much—but it does make room for something new to happen.

If this resonates, if you're tired of performing wellness while feeling like you're still figuring out the basics—stay close. I'm not writing from some healed, enlightened summit. I'm writing from the middle of the path, covered in dust, still stopping to catch my breath.

And I've found that the view from here shows things you can't see from anywhere else.

See you soon,
Gino