Kindr is a group of GBTQ+ identifying men who come together to achieve a sober and clean life. Their aim is to create a safe and respectful space where they can work together to achieve freedom from addiction. In this article, one man shares his experience of joining the group for the first time.

I wasn’t sure I was going to go to Kindr. Saturday morning came, and I nearly backed out. I hadn’t slept properly. My clothes smelled a bit—I hadn’t changed in days. But something one of the lads had said on the phone stayed with me: “You don’t have to be okay to show up.”

So I walked through the doors of Outhouse, where members of Kindr meet, just before noon. The man on Reception was so kind, I told him I knew him as a great DJ in the club’s.

It was quiet at first. Just a few people moving chairs around, talking and laughing, setting up the space. Some smiled and nodded others shook my hand. I found a seat and looked at the floor. I wondered what they wanted; I was ready to bolt at any moment.

But then it started. The readings were short, but something about them got under my skin. People started sharing—about addiction, about shame, about meth, about sex. About disappearing into chemsex for weekends and losing themselves in ways they hadn’t been able to stop. I felt like someone had cracked open my brain and was reading from my own story. Except no one seemed ashamed. They spoke with honesty. Sadness, yes—but also strength. Humour even.

And no one was shocked. Not by anything. One man said he hadn’t had sex without meth for fifteen years. Another said he’d used with strangers in hotel rooms until he didn’t even know who he was. I could hardly breathe hearing it—because it was me. I’d done all that. And worse. And here were people saying it out loud. Calmly. In public. And nobody flinched.

When it was over, I expected people to rush out the door. But they didn’t. A few of them asked if I wanted to come for food. Just like that. As if I belonged. I said I had no money, one said you don’t need money with us, gal. I laughed and went with them.

We went somewhere nearby and sat around eating nice food and lovely juices. There was laughter—real, belly laughter. Silly jokes. Someone shared that they’d cried during the meeting. I said I had, too. I started to feel like I could breathe. And then it hit me—I was happy. Like a kid. A mad, excited, nervous little kid who was being seen properly for the first time.

After lunch, two of the lads offered to walk me to the Dart, one of them offered to get my ticket and he did. We talked nonsense. Both of them hugged me before I left. I wanted the ground to swallow me—I was sure they could smell me. I was embarrassed about everything: how I looked, how I’d lived, how far I’d fallen.

But he just said, “We’re glad you came. Come again, yeah?” He meant it.

And that was the moment I nearly cried again—not from shame this time, but from this strange feeling I hadn’t had in years: I was welcome. Not for what I could offer. Not for sex. Not for performance. Just… for being me. A me I hadn’t met yet.

I saw two lads at the meeting I recognised from the old days—from sex parties, from app chats, from dark places. I wondered where the others were. I wondered if they were okay. And then I wondered if, one day, I’d be strong enough to help them find this place too.

It was just a meeting. An hour in a room. A bite to eat after. A walk to the Dart. But for me—it was a turning point. A holy moment. A beginning.

I’m still not sure if it was real. But I’m going back next week to find out more.

For more information about Kindr, visit their website.