Hello Beautiful and Kind People!

It’s always 3:00 a.m. when the weight shows up. No warning, no reason—just a sudden tightness in my chest and the quiet realization: sleep has left the building.

On my nightstand, there’s a lineup of well-intentioned solutions—melatonin gummies, herbal tea, a half-read novel, a guided meditation cued up on my phone. They all work some nights. But lately, more often than not, I lie there, awake and alert, thoughts racing through every possible what-if.

What if the next election unravels everything? What if the courts are already lost? What if we’re too late?

These are not irrational questions. They’re the byproducts of paying attention.

And here’s the truth: for many of us, especially queer folks, sleep has become a kind of luxury. Not just because of stress or too much screen time, but because we know, deep in our bones, that something fundamental is shifting. We feel it before others admit it. We see the signs earlier, because we’ve had to.

And when you live on the edge of systems—never quite inside, never fully protected—it’s hard to close your eyes and trust that someone else has the wheel.

II. Conflicting Signals, Confused Leadership

The hardest part isn’t just the fear. It’s the mixed messages.

One day, I’m talking with friends who’ve worked in D.C. for decades—smart, seasoned people who assure me that institutions are resilient, that the checks and balances will hold. “The pendulum always swings back,” they say, like a mantra. “We’ve seen worse.”

Then, in the same week, I’ll get a quiet message from someone I trust, suggesting I tone down my political commentary for a bit. Just until things settle. Maybe skip that next international trip. Maybe make sure my name isn’t too closely tied to anything “controversial.”

I hear both voices. I respect both. But I can’t ignore the fact that the second one feels more honest. Less rehearsed. More rooted in how power really works—and how quickly it can shift.

What’s unsettling isn’t just that the guardrails are shaky. It’s that so many of the people we’ve been trained to look to for leadership seem unsure themselves. Some are hedging their bets. Others are waiting to see which way the wind blows. Many are just plain tired—burned out from years of fighting fires without time to rebuild the house.

And I get it. I really do. Leadership in uncertain times is exhausting. But it’s also when leadership matters most.

Right now, too many voices with platforms are either retreating into silence or clinging to a fragile optimism that things will just… work out. As if democracy is a self-cleaning oven. As if LGBTQ+ rights, reproductive freedom, access to education, or even factual truth can’t be rolled back with one bad election—or one coordinated campaign of disinformation.

I don’t want alarmism. I want clarity. I want honesty. I want the kind of leadership that can look this moment in the eye and still say: We have work to do—and we’re going to do it together.

III. Queer People Always Feel the Shift First

I’ve been in boardrooms, greenrooms, and grassroots meetings around the world—and I’ve learned something I trust more than any pundit or poll: queer people are cultural early warning systems.

We feel the tremors before the quake.

It’s not a sixth sense. It’s lived experience. Generations of learning how to read the room when the room wasn’t built for us. Knowing when we’re being invited in versus tolerated. Sensing when the temperature is changing—because it always, eventually, comes for us.

We saw it during COVID. We saw it during the AIDS crisis. We’ve seen it every time there’s been a cultural retrenchment—a backlash against progress dressed up as “concern for children” or “defending values.” The dog whistles aren’t new. The only thing that changes is the delivery system.

And now, we’re seeing it again. In the coordinated attacks on trans youth. In the hollowing out of DEI programs. In school boards targeting queer books. In statehouses proposing legislation that feels more like a warning shot than a policy debate.

Some of us feel crazy for how much we’re feeling. Like we’re being dramatic. But we’re not. We’ve just been here before.

The difference is, this time, the pushback is global. Strategic. Well-funded. And some of the people we thought were in the fight with us? They’re quiet now. Or “rebranding.” Or worried about saying the wrong thing.

But here’s what I know: LGBTQ+ people—especially Black, Brown, trans, and immigrant folks—have never had the luxury of waiting for someone else to validate our fear before we act.

So when I can’t sleep, it’s not just anxiety. It’s memory. And it’s instinct. We know what it looks like when the weather turns. And we know it’s time to gather, not scatter.

IV. The Emotional Spiral: Fear, Fatigue, and False Hope

The emotional whiplash is real.

One day, I’m fired up. Motivated. Ready to write, speak, rally—whatever it takes. And then the next, I feel completely depleted. Like I’ve been treading water for years, and the shore keeps moving further away.

Fear is exhausting. So is hope, if we’re not careful with it.

Because there’s real hope—the kind built on action, relationships, and hard truths. And then there’s false hope. The kind that shows up in fundraising emails and carefully worded press releases. “We’re just one vote away!” “We can’t lose momentum!” “Give now to protect our rights!”

I know the game. I’ve written some of those emails. I’ve donated because of them. But let’s be honest—outrage has become a currency, and too often we’re spending it on symbolic fights with no exit strategy.

We can’t keep reacting to every fire with the same panic and expect it to lead to power.

We need more than reactivity. We need vision. We need depth. We need room to feel—not just anger, but grief, uncertainty, and yes, even boredom. We need space to mourn what’s been lost without pretending everything’s fine. And we need to admit that burnout isn’t a badge of honor—it’s a warning sign.

As a coach, I tell my clients: your nervous system is not a PR firm. It can’t spin every disaster into an opportunity. Sometimes, you just need to feel what you feel—and then decide what to do with it.

So when I’m lying awake at night, flipping between Instagram and guided breathing exercises, I remind myself: I don’t need to be okay to be useful. I don’t need to be fearless to be effective. I just need to stay in the game—and stay awake to what matters most.

V. The Power of Staying Awake (Even When It’s Hard)

Here’s what I’ve come to believe: being awake is hard—but it’s also where the magic happens.

There’s wisdom in insomnia, if we know how to listen. Not just the kind that comes from worry or stress, but the kind that comes from noticing. From paying attention. From refusing to look away.

I’ve spent decades in leadership—coaching executives, building teams, navigating moments of crisis. And one thing I’ve learned over and over again is this: the most powerful shifts happen when we stop numbing ourselves and start asking better questions.

What’s really happening here?

What’s mine to do?

What future do I want to help shape?

It’s easy to reach for comfort in moments like this—to tune out, to distract ourselves, to tell ourselves that someone else will handle it. But comfort is often a sedative, and clarity requires staying conscious.

And let me be clear: this isn’t about perfection. You don’t have to be an expert, an activist, or a political strategist to show up. You just have to be present. Curious. Willing to engage even when the path isn’t clear.

For LGBTQ+ people, this is part of our inheritance. We know how to create under pressure. We know how to build while the ground is still shaking. We’ve done it in closets and courtrooms, on dance floors and protest lines. We know what it means to live awake in a world that would rather we stay quiet, or disappear.

So if you’re up at night, thinking too much, feeling too much—you’re not alone. And you’re not broken. You’re awake for a reason.

Now let’s ask: what do we do with that wakefulness?

I want to celebrate Harvard University and the other Universities and Colleges that have banded together to collectively push back against the Federal Administration’s moves control free speech, academic freedom, and the pursuit of a fair and balanced education. The power of cooperation, fact-based discussions and decision making, social justice, and equity are on full display. I applaud their vision, their leadership, and their bravery.

I asked KYLER BOURNE to share his very important and inspirational story this week. Please join me in celebrating him in his own words:

The most persistent story I told myself growing up was that I was "too sensitive." My deep care for my family’s and others’ opinions, combined with belittling comments about my emotional nature, made it easy for me to internalize the idea that emotions were something to avoid, not embrace. As I got older, messages from social media, television, and even my peers seemed to reinforce that belief. I began hiding my emotions, concealing the parts of myself that made me different, and doubting that who I was — and what I had to offer — truly belonged in this world.

When I realized my sexuality was different from most people around me, I started to believe the lie that my difference made me inherently evil. It felt like no matter what I achieved — success in sports, good grades, helping at home, being kind, or even dating girls — it would never be enough to make me worthy of God’s love or the love of those closest to me. In late high school, I struggled with dark thoughts and intense depression and anxiety. Around the same time, my brother came out, and watching him seek acceptance only deepened my instinct to hide who I was. Heading into college, I hoped that distance from everything familiar would create space for real self-discovery.

College was a time of both great joy and deep despair. My joy came from the people who poured into me, believed in me, and stood beside me. My despair came from the isolation I felt — particularly from other men, people of faith, and friends I thought would remain close. What kept me grounded was my commitment to self-discovery. I dedicated myself to learning about emotions and faith in a way that gave me more agency over my own story. I immersed myself in books on LGBTQ+ affirmation and emotional health, equipping myself to defend both my faith and my identity.

Before graduating, I lost an on-campus job because of my sexuality. I was serving as a spiritual mentor when a student, uncomfortable with my LGBTQ+ involvement, reported me. As painful as that experience was, it gave me a deeper understanding: I remembered when I, too, believed my identity was dangerous. But because I had done the work to reconcile my faith and sexuality, I no longer carried that belief — though I could still empathize with those who did.

I believe my university mishandled the situation by giving me an ultimatum — to either hide my identity online or to step down — without any real conversation about my qualifications or character. However, that moment ignited a vow within me: I would no longer limit my life to my own narrow reality, but recognize that my reality is just one thread in a vast, beautiful tapestry of experiences.

Today, I am a champion of faith, personal development, and passion. I encourage others to lean into their "why," to discover who they are, what they believe, and what drives them. My life in return has been enriched by meaningful relationships, deep joy, and lasting gratitude. I have found purpose in playing volleyball, engaging in faith discussions, building relationships, exploring self-discovery, advocating for diversity, spending time with my loved ones — especially my cat, Suki, and more. Please don’t hesitate to reach out and connect, as I am always eager to learn more about the beautiful stories and diverse experiences that make up our community and the world around us. 

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VI. What To Do With Sleepless Nights

So what do we do when we can’t sleep?

We scheme the future.

Not in some sinister, backroom way—but with purpose. With imagination. With love. Sleepless nights can be brutal, but they can also be sacred. They crack us open, force us to confront the truth, and if we let them, they can move us from paralysis to possibility.

Here’s what I try to do when I’m wide awake and the headlines won’t stop spinning:

I reflect. I write. Even a few words. Not perfect or publishable—just real. I ask myself, What’s bothering me? What do I wish I could say? What’s one small thing I can do tomorrow to move something forward? Sometimes clarity sneaks in when you’re just honest on the page.

I connect. I reach out—to a friend, a colleague, a former student, someone I admire. I ask how they’re doing. I remind them they’re not alone. Sometimes we don’t need a plan, just a reminder that we’re in this together.

I plan. I think long-term. I imagine what the world could look like in five years—not just what I fear, but what I hope. I ask: What’s the bold move? What’s the conversation no one’s having? What’s the space we need to create that doesn’t exist yet?

I act. Even small things count. I support organizations doing the deep, unglamorous work. I write the hard notes. I call out silence when it matters. I use my platform to amplify courage and creativity. And I keep showing up, even when I’m tired. Especially when I’m tired.

Not every sleepless night is productive. Some nights are just hard. But when the world feels uncertain, our insomnia can become a form of resistance. It reminds us that our spirits are still on alert. That we haven’t tuned out. That we still care deeply—and that we’re still capable of doing something with that care.

VII. The Queer Superpower of Imagination

If there’s one thing I trust more than fear, more than the news cycle, more than even the courts or campaigns—it’s queer imagination.

It’s our superpower. Always has been.

We’ve had to imagine a world that didn’t exist for us. We’ve had to create chosen family, reinvent leadership, reimagine love, joy, safety, power—from the margins. We’ve built movements, art, language, and lives from nothing more than will and vision.

So why stop now?

Yes, the systems are shifting. Yes, the old rules are crumbling. But maybe they were never designed to hold all of us in the first place. Maybe our work isn’t to preserve what was—but to build something radically better. Not just for queer people, but through a queer lens: inclusive, brave, curious, generous, and grounded in collective care.

Let’s be honest—this might be the end of something. But it’s also the beginning. And the people who stay awake during moments like this? They’re the ones who shape what comes next.

That’s our invitation.

Not to panic.

Not to retreat.

But to stay awake with intention.

To imagine loudly.

To act boldly.

To rest when we can, but to never confuse numbness with peace.

So if you’re not sleeping—welcome. You’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re part of a wide, invisible network of people lying awake at night, wondering how to help, how to lead, how to heal, how to build. You’re not alone. You’re a visionary.

And maybe—just maybe—this moment is calling you not to dream less, but to dream awake.

With Hope and Dreams,

Jim