The bass line from Rush’s “Tom Sawyer” pulsed through The Sanctuary’s freshly painted crimson walls as I descended those familiar concrete steps, the weight of the day’s shitstorm pressing down on my shoulders like a fucking anvil. The scent of Della’s jambalaya—rich with andouille and holy-shit levels of cayenne—cut through the stale basement air, mixing with the lingering ghost of yesterday’s cigarettes and tonight’s fresh anxiety.

The Official Safety of a Queer Space Playist: HERE.

Miguel looked up from behind the restored bar, his dark eyes catching the warm light that now made this place feel like home instead of a goddamn bunker. The new mirrors reflected back a community in crisis, but also one that had learned to transform raw spaces into something sacred.

Mom, you look like you’ve been dragged through ten miles of bad road backwards, he said, already reaching for the bottle of Maker’s Mark. His voice carried that familiar sultry-but-childlike tone that somehow managed to be both comforting and heartbreaking. Rough day in the land of the living?

The amber liquid caught the light as he poured, the whiskey’s caramel notes promising temporary refuge from the pain of the day. I wrapped my fingers around the glass, feeling the smooth restoration work Miguel and Della had done on this bar top—every grain of wood now telling stories of resilience instead of decay.

Rough doesn’t begin to cover it, I muttered, taking a sip that burned in all the right ways.

Ezra looked up from their beanbag chair, blue hair catching the stage lights like some kind of ethereal flame. They’d been sketching again, their notebook filled with intricate patterns that seemed to map out the emotional geography of our little underground kingdom.

What’s got everyone looking like death warmed over? they asked, setting down their pencil. Even the music sounds nervous tonight.

As if on cue, Genesis’s “Land of Confusion” started bleeding through the speakers, Phil Collins’s voice carrying an urgency that matched the electricity crackling through our basement sanctuary. Fucking prophetic, that.

Brandon sat hunched over a corner table, his laptop closed for once, staring at his phone like it might bite him. His usually perfect writer’s posture had collapsed into something that screamed defeat. The success he’d worked so hard for—his essay about The Sanctuary that had gone viral, bringing our little underground family into the harsh light of national attention—now felt like a target painted on all our backs.

Brandon, honey, I called out, you gonna sit there all night looking like you swallowed a bag of broken glass, or are you gonna tell us what fresh hell we’re dealing with?

He looked up, and I saw something I’d never seen in his eyes before: genuine fear. Not the performative anxiety he usually wore like a comfortable sweater, but the bone-deep terror of someone who’d just realized their words had consequences beyond their control.

They know where we are, he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The conservative blogger—the one who’s been doxxing people from my article—he posted our address. Says he’s coming to ‘document the degeneracy’ himself.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Della’s spatula stopped mid-stir, and even the eternal optimist Ezra went pale under their blue bangs.

Well, shit, Keira said from her spot near the pool table, her voice carrying that steel that made me fall in love with her fierce heart. How long before the pitchfork brigade shows up?

Lisa, our pragmatic farm girl lesbian who’d spent decades hiding before finding her truth in her sixties, stood up from her barstool with the kind of deliberate movement that spoke to a lifetime of preparing for battles. Her weathered hands, which had worked cattle and crops through countless seasons, now gripped her beer bottle like she was ready to use it as a weapon.

We’ve dealt with worse than some keyboard warrior with a God complex, she said, her voice carrying the authority of someone who’d survived everything rural Georgia could throw at a closeted woman. Question is, do we fight or do we disappear?

That’s when Elaine laughed—that sharp, bitter sound she made when the universe showed its ass in particularly spectacular fashion. At sixty, our GraySexual wit-wielding queen had seen enough bullshit to fill several lifetimes.

Oh, sweethearts, she said, raising her Rum Collins in a mock toast, welcome to the eternal fucking dilemma of queer existence. Do we hide in the shadows like good little deviants, or do we stand in the light and let them try to burn us down?

The sound system shifted to Heart’s “Barracuda,” Ann Wilson’s voice cutting through our collective anxiety like a blade through silk. The irony wasn’t lost on any of us—we were the barracudas now, circled by sharks who wanted to tear apart everything we’d built.

There’s more, Brandon continued, his voice gaining strength but losing hope. A toxic substack publication wants to do a live about this place. Turn our story into some kind of inspiring tale of queer degenerate refuge thing.

Della’s laugh from the kitchen sounded like sandpaper on raw wood. Let me guess, she called out, not turning from her jambalaya, they want to make us into poster children for the movement. Turn our sanctuary into a fucking stage for the straight world to validate themselves over. Fuck them.

The weight of the choice pressed down on all of us. Visibility means public scrutiny. But it also meant losing the very thing that made this place sacred—the ability to exist without performance, without explanation, without the exhausting labor of making ourselves palatable to people who saw us as entertainment rather than human beings.

That’s when the door at the top of the stairs opened with an urgency that made everyone freeze. Footsteps rushed down, and Dani appeared, her usual flowing scarves and crystals askew, her face streaked with tears that caught the warm light like broken prisms.

Dani, I said, standing immediately, what’s wrong, baby?

She stood there shaking, her gentle but fierce energy completely shattered. Marcus called, she said, her voice breaking on every word. Our kid—Jordan—they were in an accident. Drunk driver hit their car. They’re at City Memorial Hospital, and they... they don’t know if...

The sentence hung unfinished in the thick air, but we all heard what she couldn’t say. In that moment, Brandon’s crisis felt distant, abstract compared to the immediate terror of a parent facing the possible loss of their child.

I have to go, she continued, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Marcus says Jordan’s been asking for me, even though we haven’t spoken since... since he left when I came out. Five fucking years of silence, and now...

The complexity of it hit everyone at once. Dani had built her chosen family here, in this basement sanctuary, after her biological family had abandoned her for living her truth. The man who divorced her for being pansexual, who took their child and disappeared into a life that pretended she didn’t exist, was now calling because their teenager needed their mom.

You don’t have to face that alone, I said, moving toward her with the kind of maternal instinct that had guided me through raising three kids of my own. The thought of Gizmo—my brilliant daughter—flashed through my mind, bringing that familiar ache to my chest. I’ll drive you there.

Hell no, Remy said, his Cajun accent thickening with emotion as it always did when family was on the line. My mama always said you don’t let someone walk into fire by themselves. I’m coming too.

Bubba stood up from his corner table, his imposing presence filling the space with quiet strength. His deep Georgia drawl carried the weight of someone who’d survived being a Black gay man in the rural South during the worst of times.

Child, you got family here, he said to Dani, his voice gentle despite his size. We don’t abandon our own when they need us most. That’s what makes us different from the people who threw us away.

The music shifted to Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here,” and for a moment I was transported back to countless car rides with Gizmo, both of us singing along to Roger Waters’s haunting vocals. Those days felt like a lifetime ago, when my daughter still looked at me with love instead of the careful distance she maintained now. The familiar sting of tears threatened behind my eyes.

Keira moved closer, her presence both grounding and empowering. Go, she said simply. Do what you need to do for Dani. We’ll figure out the Brandon situation tomorrow.

But the blogger— Brandon started to protest.

Can fuck himself sideways with a rusty crowbar shoved up his ass and turned like a crank, Elaine interrupted, her usual wit carrying an edge of genuine anger. Some asshole with a keyboard is nothing compared to a parent needing to be with their hurt child.

Lisa nodded, her practical farm wisdom cutting through the chaos. Crisis triage, kids. Family emergency trumps everything else. The bar will still be here tomorrow, and so will we. That’s what sanctuary means—we protect our own, no matter what fresh hell is waiting outside.

Della appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel that had seen better days but still carried the scent of spices and love. Take some of this jambalaya to go, she said to Dani, ladling the aromatic mixture into a container. Hospital food is shit, and you’re gonna need something with soul in it.

The simple act of nourishment, of providing sustenance for the journey ahead, felt more revolutionary than any documentary or blog post ever could. This was the real work of chosen family—showing up with food and presence when the world fell apart.

Miguel poured another round of whiskey, this time including glasses for Remy and Bubba. For the road, he said, his voice soft with understanding. And for courage.

Ezra stood up from their beanbag chair, holding out their latest sketch. It showed intertwined hands of different colors and ages, forming a circle of protection around a small figure in the center. For Jordan, they said to Dani. So they know they’ve got family they haven’t even met yet.

As we prepared to leave, I caught Brandon’s eye. The weight of his crisis hadn’t disappeared, but it had been put into perspective by the immediate human need in front of us.

This is what real visibility looks like, I told Brandon, my voice carrying the exhaustion of someone who’d fought these battles for decades. Not performing our pain for straight audiences, but showing up for each other when it matters most. The rest is just noise. But you should know by now, I will have a game plan by the time we get back, so that we can take action.

Thank you Mom, Brandon echoed, feeling more secure now. And less worried.

AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” started pounding through the speakers as we headed for the stairs, the driving rhythm matching our determined footsteps. The music followed us up and out into the alley, where the neon sign of Murphy’s Tavern cast rainbow shadows on the brick walls.

The night air hit us like a slap of reality, carrying the sounds of a city that continued spinning regardless of our small human dramas. But as we walked toward my car, I felt the invisible threads that connected us—chosen family moving as one unit toward whatever waited in that hospital room.

Behind us, The Sanctuary’s basement light spilled out into the darkness, a beacon for anyone who needed refuge from a world that didn’t understand the sacred nature of spaces where people could exist without explanation or performance. Tomorrow we’d face Brandon’s crisis, the blogger’s threats, and the impossible choice between visibility and safety.

Tonight, we were just a group of queers rushing through the darkness to hold vigil beside a hospital bed, proving that love—messy, complicated, chosen love—was the only revolution that mattered.

The city lights blurred past us as we drove toward the City Hospital, carrying jambalaya and whiskey courage, ready to stand witness to both the fragility and fierce resilience of the families we make when the world fails to provide them ready-made.

“The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.” - Joseph Campbell

Campbell’s words illuminate the paradox facing our underground family: the very exposure they fear—whether from Brandon’s unwanted fame or Dani’s return to biological family—might hold the keys to deeper healing and authentic connection. Sometimes sanctuary isn’t about staying hidden, but about having the courage to emerge when love demands it, carrying the strength of chosen family into spaces that once rejected us.