I Was Afraid of Straight White Men. Then I Met Them in the Forest

A queer man’s reflection on fear, anger, and what becomes possible when men truly see one another with love.

A few weeks ago, I boarded a plane and then drove three hours deep into the redwoods of Mendocino, CA to attend a men’s retreat. Not just any retreat, but one organized by Michael Meade (one of the fathers of the mythopoetic men's movement) in a forest where men have been gathering for more than forty years. I wanted to be in the original space, the “OG” of men’s retreats, the place that had inspired so many others. I had heard about the mythic tone of the gathering, the grounding presence of the trees, the stories passed from one generation of men to another. I wanted to see it for myself.

As a queer man, the simple fact that I showed up already felt like a victory. Being among straight men has rarely felt safe for me. I’ve spent most of my life keeping a cautious distance, learning when to stay quiet, when to disappear. But something in me trusted this space. I knew it would be intense. I knew it would ask something of me. And I hoped it might offer something in return.

There was a lot I expected. I expected myth and story to open our hearts. I expected nature and song to soften us. I expected moments of stillness and reflection. But what I did not expect - what I was unprepared for - was the deep, unexpected healing I experienced from being genuinely seen and cared for by straight men.

Like many queer boys, I grew up afraid of groups of men. I was bullied, pushed around, ridiculed for being too feminine, too sensitive, too soft. I learned early on to protect myself by becoming invisible. And when I came out as gay, I learned a second layer of caution: don’t get too close, or they’ll think you’re flirting. (Let’s be honest—most of the time, I wasn’t.) But that didn’t stop the need to constantly manage their discomfort or assumptions.

So it was a profound shift to be in the woods with nearly one hundred men - most of them straight, many of them white - and to be met with kindness. They invited me to sit with them, listened to me with respect, offered hugs that felt real and grounded. I could feel something shift inside me. My inner child, the one who had learned to hide, began to glow. He realized there was nothing to fear, that he belonged. That it was possible to be safe in the company of cis straight men (at least there).

There was something equally powerful in being seen and cared for by white men. As a queer Mexican immigrant, I didn’t take that lightly. It felt meaningful to be in a space where we could sit with our differences and not flatten them. Where we didn’t need to fully understand one another in order to offer presence. Where humanity, not agreement, was the shared language. I received small but unforgettable offerings after the retreat - a poem, a book, a hug, a moment of eye contact that said, “I see you.” I took all of it with me. These gestures added up to a kind of kinship I had never experienced before with straight men.

Another surprising aspect of the retreat was the particular tone of masculinity that lived in that space. It felt more raw, more honest, less managed than the kinds of spaces I’m used to in racial justice or philanthropic work. There was less emphasis on consensus and more room for difference, including uncomfortable or clashing truths. People were allowed to show up fully, with their anger, their opinions, and their grief. That wasn’t always easy, but it felt real. And within that rawness, I discovered a new relationship to anger.

Growing up, I had learned that I didn’t have the luxury of expressing anger. If I got angry at home, I would get punished. If I showed anger at school, I might get hit. Anger was dangerous. So I became skilled at avoiding it. But in "Mendo", something shifted. I found myself able to feel my anger fully and still be safe. I learned that being angry is not the same as being violent. I stood up. I spoke honestly. I said things without having to cushion or translate them. And instead of being punished or misunderstood, I was received. It was one of the most liberating experiences of my adult life.

The space didn’t condone harm or hatred, but it didn’t over-regulate either. If someone said something that caused harm, the response wasn’t exile, it was engagement. We would figure out how to repair. How to hold each other through discomfort. That kind of space is rare, and I believe it’s deeply needed.

So to the straight cis men reading this, especially those who are white, I want to say something clearly: Your willingness to show up with curiosity and presence can be deeply healing, not just for queer people like me, but for you as well. When you stay in the room with our truth, when you choose to listen instead of retreat, when you risk offering your tenderness, you are helping to undo something much bigger than you.

And I believe we can help you, too. Queer men know something about the rigidity of masculinity because we’ve had to survive it. We know how lonely those boxes can be. We’ve had to break them open to breathe. And we can help you breathe, too. We can help you come home to yourself, just as you help us feel safe in our bodies and in our truth.

That weekend in Mendocino showed me what is possible when men choose love over fear, presence over posturing, and care over performance. I won’t forget it. And I want more of us to experience what I did.

If this sounds like something you want to experience, reach out and let's talk!