Behind the Harness & Sash: Mid-Atlantic Weekend
One thing I have come to love about wearing this title sash is how often it has pushed me beyond my comfort zone and into unfamiliar territory. Sometimes that means walking into a new room full of people I don’t yet know. Sometimes it’s participating in events or classes I wouldn’t normally sign up for. And sometimes it means boarding a plane and traveling across the country to immerse myself in a leather-filled weekend I’ve never experienced before.
In the middle of January, after work on Thursday the 15th, I headed to LAX and boarded a red-eye flight to Washington, DC, to attend MAL—Mid-Atlantic Leather Weekend. Hosted by the Centaur Motorcycle Club, MAL brings together leather-folx from all over the globe for one long, social, high-energy weekend.
Even when I was living on the East Coast in New York City, this particular event had never been on my radar. At the time, I wasn’t fully immersed in the leather community. I was far more interested in show tunes being sung by Broadway hopefuls in the Village or karaoke nights on the East Side. Leather came later.
But since winning Mr. CMEN Leather back in August, I made it a point to show up and turn out for a wide range of events; to make sure my year felt well-rounded, intentional, and fully lived. MAL felt like an important box to check, especially given how often people spoke about it with reverence. This wasn’t just another weekend. This was the weekend people returned to year after year.
Leading up to the trip, there was a lot of chatter about self-care: hydrate, nourish your body, pace yourself, enjoy the weekend without expectations. That gave me pause. I’ve attended CLAW in Los Angeles. I’ve been to IML in Chicago. I’ve gone through more than a few CMEN West Coast Gatherings. What made this one so different?
The answer, unfortunately, arrived before I ever did.
The week before my flight, the Santa Ana winds were in full force in Southern California, which meant my allergies were also having a field day. My throat began to ache. That familiar dry cough crept in. By Thursday afternoon, my voice was nearly gone. I felt fine overall, but the symptoms were unmistakable. I knew sleep was essential (something I’m notoriously bad at getting on airplanes) and I told myself that if I could just rest enough, I’d power through the first day and be fine.
Reader, that was not the case.
I arrived at the hotel and immediately crawled into bed, hoping to make up for the sleep I’d lost. I didn’t feel terrible, but I also didn’t feel like myself. What I’d been looking forward to for weeks quickly became frustrating; not because the weekend wasn’t delivering, but because I wasn’t able to show up fully. I still had a good time, yes, but I know I missed out on a lot. I’d quietly sneak away to my room to rest, rationing my energy in short bursts.
Throughout the weekend, the cough lingered. Conversations were interrupted by the sudden disappearance of my voice, words catching in my throat mid-sentence. I’d excuse myself for water or a cough drop, trying not to draw attention to it. It’s a strange thing to be physically present while your spirit doesn’t quite meet you there. I found myself wishing for a redo, a version of the weekend where I arrived at 100 percent, not this muted, scaled-back version of myself. But there’s always next year.
What I did manage to see, even through the fog, is why MAL holds the reputation it does. It’s an entirely social weekend. There are no workshops or classes to duck into, no structured distractions. Instead, there’s a hotel lobby that never sleeps, filled with people at all hours of the day. The vendor mart forces everyone into close proximity, encouraging shared camaraderie whether you planned on it or not. Community by design. Connection by default.
I chose a few moments to be fully present instead of trying to do everything. One of those moments was the IMLBB press conference at MAL, where the judges were announced, followed by a brief orientation led by our Den Daddy, Miguel. Hearing about the IML experience firsthand, without online noise or printed materials, was grounding. It made the process feel real in a way it hadn’t before. This journey is no longer abstract. It’s inching closer to completion, and hearing that I’m navigating it as correctly as I can was reassuring.
There was also an opportunity to hear from the IML class ahead of us and ask questions as we prepare for our own weekend. Listening to their experiences helped shape the vision I’m holding for myself. Every piece of advice circled back to the same message: be yourself. Show up authentically. Anything else reads as performance, and this community sees right through it.
That advice stuck with me, not because it was new, but because it was confirmed. I don’t know how to be anyone else, especially when I’m in my leathers. There’s no persona I put on. No switch I flip. I arrive as myself, voice cracks and all.
So maybe this weekend wasn’t the letdown I briefly convinced myself it was. Maybe it offered a quieter lesson instead. One about presence over perfection. About allowing yourself to be seen even when you’re not at your strongest. About understanding that showing up doesn’t require polish, it requires honesty.
And that brings me back to the sash.
This sash doesn’t demand perfection. It doesn’t expect me to have endless energy, a flawless voice, or every answer figured out. What it asks of me is simpler and harder. It asks me to be present. To be honest. To show up as myself, even when that version feels incomplete.
That, it turns out, is exactly enough.
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