Personal Inventory

I’m sitting in a writer’s group, fully immersed in the room, listening as fellow creatives share the projects they’ve been nurturing, shaping, and wrestling into existence. Midway through the check-in, one of them casually lays out her plan for the hour: to do a personal inventory of the projects she’s been working on. The phrase catches me off guard. It’s the first weekend of the new year, that strange in-between where reflection feels unavoidable, and suddenly I’m aware of how much I’m holding. I pause, reach for a pen, and write the words personal inventory at the top of the page, unsure whether I’m ready for what that list might reveal. I showed up to the group intending to write something brand new for Substack, something tidy and self-contained, easy to archive elsewhere someday, if the internet inevitably turns on another one of its platforms, but this feels like a different kind of work entirely.

The timing makes sense. The first weekend of the year has a way of asking questions whether you’re ready to answer them or not. This isn’t about resolutions or grand declarations or reinventing myself by February. It’s quieter than that. It’s about gathering the pieces of what I’ve already been building, taking an honest look at what survived the year, and deciding what still deserves care as the next one unfolds.

The largest piece of that inventory, the one that takes up the most space on the page and in my chest, is also the hardest to imagine letting go of. Twelve years ago, I had an idea for a web series about a guy who dreams of becoming a soap opera actor on his favorite show. And then the question underneath it all: what happens when the show that shaped you disappears? That question became Misguided, a project born out of my love for daytime dramas and sustained by stubborn devotion. I released an early teaser without much of a roadmap, mostly just faith and enthusiasm, and somehow, twelve years later, I’m preparing to release the final six episodes.

Working on Misguided taught me more than I ever expected to learn. I learned how painful writing can be, how satisfying it feels when a story finally clicks, how tedious editing is, and how euphoric it can be to land on the exact right music cue after hours of second-guessing. I got to act alongside people I once watched through a television screen, build friendships inside a community I deeply respect, and briefly inhabit a version of the world I once only imagined myself entering. It wasn’t easy. It never was. And this ending, earned and inevitable, proves just how much was asked along the way. Still, it gave me more than I knew how to ask for.

As I assemble the final episodes and prepare for the release, my heart feels full in a way that’s both satisfying and unsettling. Completion brings pride, but it also brings silence. Once the last episode is out in the world, there will be nothing left to tweak or rewrite or fix. The project that has accompanied me for over a decade will finally stand on its own. And I know myself well enough to know that when that moment arrives, my heart will almost immediately start asking the same uncomfortable question: now what?

Now what, indeed. Because the truth is, finishing a project that has taken this long doesn’t feel like a victory lap. It feels more like realizing you stayed at the party until the end. The chairs are stacked. The snack table has been wiped down. The night was a success, but the music is gone, and what’s left is that faint ringing in your ears from the voices that filled the room not so long ago. Standing there, you can’t help but wonder if this was a singular alignment of timing, energy, and goodwill. If you’ll ever gather the same people, the same momentum, the same version of yourself in one place again. It’s not regret, exactly. It’s the quiet fear that comes from finishing something that once gave shape to so much of your time and asking whether you know how to begin without it.

Which is how I find myself taking inventory instead of rushing toward an answer.

Running alongside the final chapter of Misguided is the second half of my year as Mr. CMEN Leather 2025. There are events on the calendar, a speech to prepare, contests and leather conferences leading up to International Mister Leather in May. On paper, it looks busy. But what matters more to me is how I show up during this time. I’m shifting my focus toward participation and service not out of obligation, but out of a genuine desire to be present within the community that’s held me. This role isn’t about filling space; it’s about contributing to it with care and intention, especially in moments when showing up quietly matters more than being seen.

And then there’s the project that’s been unfolding quietly, without announcements or deadlines. Little by little, I’ve been writing more and more. Occasionally, I’ve shared a glimpse of the process: an Instagram story here, a photo of a completed manuscript there, but mostly, the work has happened privately. It’s a story about love, chosen family, and the decision to stay when walking away would have been easier. I’ve carried this project with me for a long time, and the thought of releasing it into the world is terrifying in a way I recognize immediately. Sharing it feels more vulnerable than grieving a mother/friend on screen, more intimidating than standing in front of a crowd wearing nothing but a leather corset and boots.

And yet, I’m excited. Because writing it helped me make sense of a difficult year. Because I know how much it would have meant to me to read a story like this while I was living it. Because sometimes the most personal work turns out to be the most generous.

Is the memoir finished? In my mind, yes. The hardest part is already done. The words exist outside of me now. The rest-- the editing, the shaping, the figuring out how it eventually meets readers, are all part of the process. I’ve learned to trust that process before. I didn’t know how to make a web series when I started Misguided, but I learned by doing. I adapted. I grew. I plan to approach this the same way. 

Looking ahead at the year, I know the world isn’t offering much reassurance. Asking “how are you?” has become a loaded question, usually followed by a long pause and a disclaimer. I’m doing okay, considering everything. The best I can do is acknowledge the strange privilege of getting to make things at all. Of getting to tell stories. Of living in a place where curiosity and creativity are still allowed to coexist. That awareness doesn’t fix much, but it steadies me.

So I take inventory. Not to wipe anything clean or declare a fresh start, but to see what’s already here and decide what still deserves my care. Some projects are nearing their end, others are just beginning, and a few are quietly waiting for the right conditions to be met. I’m learning that not everything needs to be rushed forward or replaced the moment it stops demanding my attention. Some things ask to be set down gently. Others need to be carried a little longer.

Continuity, I’m realizing, doesn’t come from spectacle or constant reinvention. It comes from showing up, again and again, even when there’s no obvious payoff. It comes from patience, from attention, from staying with the work after the excitement fades and before the next thing announces itself. That kind of staying doesn’t always look productive from the outside, but it’s how things actually grow. And for now, that’s enough to keep me moving.