When Bolt closed its Downtown location last year, it raised the question: without a dedicated space left to gather, where can queer people in Lafayette find community? That question has become especially relevant at a time when political leadership at the national level has moved to erase queer identity from the public sphere.
For Candice Broussard, a local queer writer and artist, the search for safe spaces in Lafayette has been both personal and complex. As someone who came out later in life and therefore entered the scene at an older age, she says it was difficult to find places that were designed for or at least openly accepting of her queer identity.
“I don’t know if it’s because I’m older or what, but it just wasn’t always obvious where to go,” Broussard says.
She recalls trivia nights at Bolt, how something about it felt like home. But most of the queer community she’s found wasn’t through public venues. It was through digging.
“You really have to look for it. The spaces are intimate — things you hear about through friends of friends, or word of mouth. It’s not that you’re being excluded. It’s more like… you just haven’t found it yet. It took time for me. Over the course of my journey, my queer community slowly built itself around me.”
That process, while meaningful, also felt isolating at times.
“It was challenging,” she admits. “I didn’t know where I could walk into a place and just be my authentic self. It halted me in a lot of ways. And that makes me wonder, where are the businesses that are opening their doors to us as a community?”
That pause—before entering a room, or ordering a coffee, or showing up as yourself—is where queer joy gets delayed or denied. Not because there’s no community, but because it’s often invisible. Something you find slowly.
One organization that has helped bridge that gap for Broussard has been Pride Acadiana. “It’s been beautiful to witness it growing over the years,” she says. “But I also want that kind of love year-round. When I look around at other businesses, especially during Pride month, it makes me wonder… why didn’t I know you supported us before June 1?”
She worries about access for the next generation., “What about the kid out there growing up in fear, hiding who they are? What about the person who hasn’t found their space yet?” Broussard wonders.
That question — how to create lasting, visible welcome — is one that many local queer-owned businesses are trying to answer in real time.
The owners of Straw Cove Baking Company, Morgan Angelle and Dené Carroll, say their entire model was built with that intention. “As queer women, it felt natural to create a space that reflects who we are,” Angelle says. “That authenticity speaks loudly to our community.”
They support the queer community not just during Pride Month but year-round—through inclusive hiring, policies, partnerships with other LGBTQ+-owned businesses, and visibility in their branding and presence, despite the lack of open, out-loud queerness in Acadiana.
“There are much gayer places we could be,”Angelle says. “But we love this community, and running a forward-facing business as a married gay couple is a huge statement. It says to anyone watching: we’re doing it. You can too.”
This is the kind of visibility that matters—not just in rainbow flags during June, but in the lived-out values that create belonging all year long.
Still, many queer people in Lafayette are building community from the ground up. I’ve felt it too.
I remember hosting Queer Kickball at Oaklawn Park on Sundays. We’d show up with snacks and sneakers, prop up speakers in the grass, and laugh our way through the summer heat.
It wasn’t official — no permit — just something we created out of a need to be. Same with the poetry nights, healing circles, and art gatherings I’ve helped host over the years. We stitched them together from what we had: backyards, borrowed rooms, folding chairs, and each other.
There’s beauty in that. But also a kind of ache. Because we shouldn’t have to build safety from scratch every time. We shouldn’t always have to wonder: will we be welcome here?
That question is what inspired Brandi Ortiz Comeaux to help lead Pride Acadiana.
“Honestly, the moment someone whispered, ‘Should we do this?’ my response was, ‘Duh, of course,’” she says. “Every time the question came up: ’Should this be bigger?’ I was already shouting, ‘YES.’”
For Comeaux, Pride is about visibility—but even more, it’s about healing.
“In a time when we’re constantly online and overwhelmed by hateful comments and performative outrage, in-person joy matters. It’s grounding. It’s healing. And yeah, I know it sounds silly, but touching grass is underrated. Pride reminds us we do have each other,” she notes.
She hopes Pride Acadiana’s impact lasts beyond June. “I want Pride Acadiana to always feel like a warm hug. Like a treasured friend. Like an act of loving resistance. I hope we grow year-round programming through the Acadiana Queer Collective, because we deserve joy, safety, and chosen family all year long.”
And she echoes the same challenge many others are feeling: getting the word out. “We’re a small team. Not everyone is on social media or opens emails. Posters are expensive. But the feedback we’ve gotten—that people felt seen, loved, and comfortable—has been deeply nourishing.”
So where do we go from here?
Candice says, “I’ve found my people. I’ve found joy, healing, and a kind of chosen family. We’ve had to build it ourselves, and I honor that. Lafayette has given me something, even as I hope for more.”
And I hope for more too.
Because while queer life in Lafayette is often stitched together quietly—passed along like a secret or an invitation—there’s room for more visibility. More welcome. More places where we don’t have to ask if we belong.
There’s a tenderness in what we’ve made, in the handmade homes and chosen families. But tenderness deserves infrastructure. It deserves amplification.
Lafayette doesn’t need to become something it’s not. But it can grow. It can listen. It can widen the welcome.
Bolt is reopening under a new name, The Library, at its old location. Hopefully, it can be one of those welcoming spaces that are so desperately needed here.
And the next time someone comes out, whether they’re fifteen or fifty, they shouldn’t have to go searching for where it’s safe to exist. They should already know.