How Matt Bernstein built a safe space for his community

Matt Bernstein hosts the podcast A Bit Fruity, where he unpacks the events, people, and culture wars shaping the world around us.

I began posting progressive political commentary, mainly about queer identity, in the late 2010s. By 2023, I had a growing community of more than a million gays (and some straights, allegedly!) and was developing a podcast which had garnered interest from production networks. Brands were chomping at the bit to work with creators like me (at least in June). For a time, one could be a loud, politicized queer AND commercially viable. That would not last.

As I began to consider the next steps for my platform, a social and political transformation emboldened hatred in person and online. This exploded on an unimaginable scale when a certain beer company mishandled their relationship with a queer influencer, publicly abandoning her and allowing the violent, bigoted backlash she received for their work together to go unchecked.

The result of this was swiftly felt by queer people globally, and uniquely so for those of us working in the public eye. Making work online about the experience of marginalization has never been entirely without blowback, but the post-beergate harassment was unprecedented.

Brands also scattered with a quickness, and Pride month income evaporated. My work was reaching more people than ever before, yet I was working unpaid for months at a time. And in another poorly-timed blow, the network that had helped produce my podcast financially collapsed a week before the first episode was set to air.

In this new reality, I had to seek solutions that would make my work…work.

Enter: Patreon.

Patreon initially intimidated me because I wasn’t sure there were people in my community willing to pay a premium for extra access to my work, and I didn’t know how to ask. I felt awkward and vulnerable announcing to the world that my well-shared Instagram content was making no money. Was this failure?

But when I launched the Patreon channel via a series of Instagram stories, my anxieties soon disappeared. People in my community, it turned out, recognized my humanity. Despite us having different lives and jobs, we were all existing on the same Internet, and many empathized with my position. Some became patrons. 

People in my community, it turned out, recognized my humanity. Despite us having different lives and jobs, we were all existing on the same Internet, and many empathized with my position.

Patreon became a community where I could speak candidly about the things that mattered most to me without regard for what corporate sponsors or influencer marketing agencies would say. I used the group chat feature to engage directly with my patrons without the vitriol of homophobic lurkers. Their support allowed me to continue making free work on my other platforms without the lingering stress of needing to preserve my “brand-safety.” I no longer had to wonder whether my personal or political identity would affect my relationships with sponsors.

I’ve been on Patreon for more than 18 months now, and I credit it with helping build a steady foundation upon which I’ve created the work I’m most proud of, both on and off the platform. I’ve dug deeper into anti-queer moral panics, antizionism, and critiques of the mainstream media’s coverage of these issues. I’ve grown closer with my community and spend less time worrying about my detractors. I’ve spent hours on the phone helping other queer creators —  who I would’ve assumed, like many did of me, were making perfectly sustainable livings on social media — start their Patreon communities. I’ve watched as it’s helped them make their best work, too.

In under two years, I’ve gone from a period of near-total stress to one of … well, a healthy, moderate amount of stress (it’s the homosexual way!). I pinch myself with gratitude often.