The Power of Invisibility

A few weeks back, I attended the Mr. Eagle LA Leather contest to support the newest titleholder and see who would be joining my IML Class of 2026. I was thrilled that Wyatt won. I’ve known him for years, going all the way back to when he won Mr. Oil Can Harry’s in 2016, a contest I was also present for.

As I’ve come to expect at these events, there were a lot of photographs taken, especially if you’re wearing a current title sash or vest, which I’ve been doing since winning my title back in August. At the end of the night, there’s usually a kind of receiving line where the winner takes photos with current titleholders, or really anyone who wants one. I’ve been collecting these photos mostly as proof that I did, in fact, leave the house multiple times during my title year.

About a week later, the photographer uploaded the photos to Facebook. As I scrolled through all the smiles and sexiness in leather, I noticed something odd: the photo I took with Wyatt wasn’t there. I saw the person before me in line. I saw the person behind me. But my photo was nowhere to be found. Stranger still, another photo I took that evening, with a friend, was also missing.

Now, this kind of oversight is understandable. These albums contain hundreds of photos. What made it unsettling was that this wasn’t the first time it had happened. Back in November, at the LA Pup contest, I once again got in line, congratulated the winner, had my photo taken…and once again, it didn’t show up in the album. Same pattern. Person before me. Person after me. Just not me.

I should note that these events were photographed by two different people, so I can’t quite cry conspiracy. Though I’ll admit, I’ve yet to see any photos of myself from CLAW LA either.

Sigh.

When I competed for Mr. CMEN Leather, one of the things I was most looking forward to was the idea of finally having a seat at the table, being fully embraced by a community I’ve admired and built relationships within for years. I imagined I’d be able to show up and be seen, to have my voice carry some weight. Maybe it was naïve to assume that winning a title would automatically grant me that space.

Am I being erased without even being given the chance to show up?

I know that stressing over a few missing photos might sound silly. Maybe I am making a mountain out of a molehill. But I genuinely didn’t expect to feel as overlooked as I often did before I had the sash. And to be clear, there have been many moments where people have approached me, struck up conversations, and connected with me specifically because I was wearing it. I think I just expected fewer invisible moments than I’ve experienced so far.

But maybe, just maybe, that invisibility is my superpower.

I’ve heard again and again that “success” at IML… using that word very loosely, because there are many ways to succeed beyond winning… comes from showing up fully as yourself. Being authentic. Letting people see who you are without performance or polish. So what happens if my defining trait is that I don’t immediately demand attention?

Does my invisibility allow me to set expectations so low that no one quite knows what to do with me, until I surprise them? I hope I’m not so quiet or unassuming that I’m dismissed outright. But even if I am, I know this much: I take myself seriously enough. I’m serious about the things I love, the people I adore, and the ideas that light me up. Maybe that’s enough.

This sense of invisibility has been a through-line for as long as I can remember. As one of six kids, planted squarely in the middle, middle-child syndrome was very real. I kept to myself. I retreated to my room to do homework and watch soap operas. I rarely gave my parents a reason to worry. It was a survival tactic, and probably the beginning of learning how to make myself smaller in order to get by.

From there, maybe I never quite learned how to outgrow it.

Was acting my attempt to unlock that coping mechanism? Was I stepping into other people’s lives in order to disappear from my own? Did I start writing short stories and soap opera fan fiction to create worlds where I could live bigger than I ever felt allowed to in real life? All of that feels possible. And the fact that I’m decades removed from that kid and still sometimes find myself shrinking, becoming invisible again, is disheartening.

But I also see the effort I’m making to break that pattern. At Mid-Atlantic Leather Weekend recently, I caught myself moving toward the front of group photos instead of hiding in the back, something I did instinctively at Folsom. It still felt awkward, like I was taking the place of someone “more deserving” …whatever that means. But I stayed.

I’m almost halfway through my title year now, and I feel genuinely proud of the groundwork I’ve laid for the second half. I’m co-hosting and organizing events. I’ve found friendships I didn’t expect. I’m standing a little taller than I was back in August.

I reached out to the photographer from the Eagle contest and gently asked whether a photo of Wyatt and me actually existed. I knew it wasn’t an easy job, and I wasn’t assigning blame. I was just curious. It turns out the photo did exist. He apologized for the oversight and added it to the album.

The missing photo from Eagle LA Contest - January 2026

I like this photo a lot.

Ten years ago, I don’t think I could have imagined myself standing there, head held high, smiling next to someone I’ve long admired. Maybe that’s the real power of invisibility. You grow without an audience. You evolve without applause. You move at your own pace, on your own timeline. And when the moment is right, you step into the light, not because someone pulled you there, but because you’re ready to take your mark.