There are places that live within us long after we’ve walked away. For me, that place is Club Paradise in Lansing, Michigan. It wasn’t just a club—it was a sanctuary, a beating heart of music, sweat, and liberation. It was where I found freedom, where I redefined myself outside of the world’s expectations, and where I carved out a space in a world that often seemed reluctant to make room for me.
As a young Black gay man, my presence in that space carried weight. The number of Black faces at the club was always small—never more than ten on any given night—but that scarcity made our connection stronger. We found each other in the crowd, drawn together by an unspoken understanding, an intrinsic bond of kinship. We weren’t just friends; we were a chosen family, creating our own culture within the larger LGBTQ community. That space, with its flashing lights and pulsing beats, was ours.
It was also where I met my first serious boyfriend. Love in those days felt cinematic—unrestrained and electric. Our connection was built on late-night conversations, stolen kisses in dark corners, and the intoxicating mix of youth and possibility. We believed in forever, even when forever was just the next weekend. The friendships and relationships born on that dance floor weren’t confined to the club. They spilled into real life—into our homes, into holiday gatherings, into the private spaces where we could be our fullest, most authentic selves.
But time moves differently when you’re young. It feels infinite, like a song that will never end. And yet, it does. Returning to Michigan years later, I realized that while I held on to those memories, the world had continued without me. I reached out, hoping to rekindle the connections that once felt so unbreakable. Some had moved away. Some had become entangled in new lives, too distant for the closeness we once shared. And some were simply gone—lives cut short, leaving behind only echoes and absence.
I used to believe friendships were everything—that they were the foundation upon which my life was built. And for a long time, they were. But now, I see relationships as fluid, as shifting tides that come and go. It’s not about valuing them less; it’s about understanding that not all bonds are meant to last forever. That said, I am open to rekindling some of those friendships—if they meet me halfway. I will not be the one always reaching out to maintain them, but I want them to know that my door is not closed.
The weight of adulthood presses harder now. My priorities have shifted. My career, my peace, my personal growth—they now take center stage. I am still working hard, still pushing myself to be the best possible version of me, and for that, I need space. I no longer have the energy for relationships that feel like obligations, that exist only out of habit rather than genuine care. And as I reflect on the past, I see that some relationships, like old chapters in a book, have simply run their course.
This realization isn’t bitter—it’s freeing. Growth requires shedding, and I am no longer afraid to let go. I honor those years, those friendships, those loves. They shaped me, strengthened me, and taught me what it meant to be seen. But I am not meant to live in the past.
So I step forward, embracing what comes next. Not with regret, but with gratitude. The music has changed, the dance floor is different, but I am still here—still moving, still evolving, still discovering who I am.
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