From the Executive Director: A Love Letter to the People Who Built This With Me
From the executive director
From Jamie: A Love Letter to the People Who Built This With Me
Hey family, it’s Jamie.
For those who haven’t met me yet, I’m one of the founders and Executive Director behind The Autonomy Project. Some of you know me well, some of you know me mostly as Alexandra, and some of you might not know me by name at all, especially if you’ve joined in the last year while I’ve been stubbornly limping around like a broken action figure. I haven’t been at as many events as I want to be, because my first knee surgery didn’t go according to plan. But even if you haven’t seen me in the rooms, you’ve felt my hands in the work: the event layouts, the policies, the lighting, the signage, the spreadsheets, the little details that make this place what it is. I’m the person weaving the threads behind the scenes. So even if you’re only just learning my name now, you’ve been living inside the work I love.
Looking Back at What We’ve Built
Every so often, life forces you to stop and actually look at what you’ve built. I guess a big surgery will do that. So will scrolling back through photos from three years ago, when The Autonomy Project was nothing but an empty building, a wild idea, and a handful of stubborn queers who believed we deserved something better.
And now look at us.
We’ve grown a full-fledged community center out of hope, queer ingenuity, mutual aid, creativity, and the relentless belief that we deserve more. We’ve gone from a daydream to a home.. a place where hundreds of you have found belonging, healing, laughter, connection, chosen family, and room to breathe.
That’s why this moment is tender for me.
What’s Happening & Why Things Might Get Messy
In a week, I go in for a second major surgery, the kind that requires actual rest (which feels personally offensive) and a few months of stepping back from the work I love. I won’t disappear, and I’ll still be around in our digital spaces, but I won’t be running around the building, managing ten things at once, or putting out metaphorical fires.
And yes… things might get a little messy for a bit.
A big part of why things may feel messy is because so much of our behind-the-scenes system still runs through me. Not because we ever wanted that, but because that’s what happens when you build a community space from scratch with limited resources, endless passion, and a ragtag team instead of big grants and career nonprofit people. I’ve been the connective tissue: the person who remembers the history behind every decision, who patches the unexpected gaps, who answers the midnight questions, who manages mutual aid requests, who fixes the websites, who designs many graphics, who keeps the long-term plan in my head while helping volunteers manage the short-term chaos.
When someone like that steps back, even temporarily, the whole organism has to reshuffle, share knowledge, and build new habits. It’s not dysfunction. It’s transition. It’s us moving from a miracle held up by a few overworked humans into an actual ecosystem held by many.
What That Might Look Like Day-to-Day
Communication may slow down.
Some processes may feel wobbly.
The marketing might not run like clockwork.
The building may have a little more chaos-energy than usual.
And the team will be carrying a lot while we figure out our new rhythm.
The Reality Of My Role
But here’s the truth:
I’m not a paid executive director.
I’m an unpaid volunteer who also works a full-time job, creates content, teaches, advocates, organizes, and tries very hard to maintain a human body with a limited number of spoons. I do this because I love it. Because I believe in all of you. Because this community deserves a place that puts people first.
But stepping back isn’t just about surgery, it’s about facing my own limits, my own body’s needs, and the reality that a few people cannot, and should not, carry an entire ecosystem alone.
And that’s why this next chapter matters.
The everyday hereos Who Keep Autonomy Project Alive
And while I’m being honest, I need to name this too: the team that keeps AP moving is extraordinary. These folks show up week after week– fixing lights, running events, answering messages, coordinating volunteers, tracking finances, managing rentals, troubleshooting tech, cleaning bathrooms, hauling furniture, de-escalating conflicts, setting up and tearing down, and holding emotional space for a community that is messy, beautiful, complex, and healing in real time.
They do it with compassion, humor, patience, chaos, and a level of dedication that still humbles me.
Nothing here happens because of one person. It happens because a constellation of humans choose, over and over again, to build something bigger than themselves. They’re the heartbeat of this place, and they deserve your support just as much as I ever have.
A Love Note to the Command Team
And to my Command Team.. this part is just for you.
You are the reason this place works. You’ve held the late nights, the impossible deadlines, the fires no one else sees, the emotional labor of a community that comes to us hurting and leaves a little less alone. You’ve carried me on the days I didn’t have enough spoons to carry myself. You’ve shown up not just with competence, but with humor, brilliance, loyalty, and an unshakable belief in what we’re building. I know this transition is going to stretch you. I know it’s going to feel uncomfortable at times. And I want you to know: I see it. I honor it. And I am deeply, deeply grateful. While I heal, you’re the stewards of this place. And I trust you with that completely. You’re not just holding the line, you’re literally shaping who we become next.
Because what we’ve built isn’t a personality cult or a one-weirdo show. It’s a living, breathing ecosystem. And ecosystems grow by shifting how energy and responsibility move through them. When I step back, a few things naturally happen: knowledge that used to live in my head gets shared, volunteers learn new roles, the team redistributes tasks, workflows stretch in new directions. It’s not a breakdown. It’s a recalibration. A good one, even if it feels a little wobbly.
Indigenous Wisdom in Action
I also want to speak from my identity for a moment: I’m Indigenous, and the way I approach leadership, the way we approach community at AP, comes from that. I was taught that a community is strongest when responsibility is shared, that power is something you hold with others, not over them, and that healing happens in relationships, not isolation. That collective wisdom is baked into everything we do behind the scenes, even if you don’t always see it.
As I take this time to rest, yes, the rhythm changes. But Indigenous teachings don’t see that shift as failure, they see it as the circle reforming itself. People step in. Knowledge moves outward. The community adjusts its shape so one person can rest without fear of collapse. This is what we’ve been learning to do all along.
And whoever you are, whatever your background, if you go back far enough, your ancestors lived this way too. That wisdom isn’t mine alone: it belongs to all of us.
Our Evolution
We are no longer the tiny upstart underground project people underestimated.
We are no longer the scrappy, exhausted crew taped together by caffeine and mutual rage.
We are becoming something durable. Resilient. Shared.
This is our evolution.
The Bigger Picture We’re Living Inside
And all of this is happening against a backdrop none of us can ignore.
The last ten months have shown us how fragile our safety nets really are:
SNAP benefits slashed, food banks overwhelmed, basic survival debated like it’s a philosophical exercise instead of people’s lives.
When groceries become a battleground, community becomes a lifeline.
Why Mutual Aid Matters More Than Ever
Mutual aid, queer joy, shared meals, a place to land when the world gets heavy...
These aren’t luxuries right now.
They’re survival strategies.
They’re political acts.
How You Can Support During This Transition
Be patient with us.
Slower emails or small delays don’t mean collapse. They mean humans doing their best while we learn new rhythms,
bring in new team members, and figure out how to redistribute the work of caring for our community.
Keep showing up.
Your presence is the heartbeat of this place.
Volunteer if you can.
Even an hour helps. Just… be patient about joining the command team.
We’re rebuilding the backbone right now and the pipeline is slow.
And if you’re able, please donate.
While I’m healing, the team will be carrying more than usual, and unexpected costs always show up when the person who patches leaks with spreadsheets is temporarily benched.
Your donations help us sustain operations, support volunteers, cover weird surprise expenses, and keep this queer sanctuary thriving.
Keep Autonomy Project thriving while I heal
Support Our Community
Every gift — small or large — strengthens our ability to hold the line and care for our community during this transition.
Donate HereAnd here’s the part that keeps echoing in my chest:
Hold the line.
Hold each other.
Hold the mission.
I built this place believing community could catch each other when it mattered. And now I get to experience that truth firsthand.
Thank you for holding me.
Thank you for holding each other.
Thank you for holding this wildly improbable, radically necessary, beautifully chaotic dream.
With love deeper than words,
Jamie
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KEEP THE LIGHT ON
When the world feels uncertain, safe spaces like The Autonomy Project become a beacon of hope. Your donation keeps our lights on—literally and figuratively—for those who need it most.
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