Author name: Tyler_Jacobson
My Name is Tyler Jacobson. I'm from Westminster, Colorado, but my home—my real home—is in Candiac, Quebec. I’ve spent my life studying the messy, beautiful, and often confusing intersection of who we are, who we love, and how we pay for it.I’m Tyler. Born just outside Denver in '82, but for the last fifteen years, I've called Candiac home. I'm a sexologist by training and, well, by experience. These days, I write about the city I love for the CamoWallet project. But my real work? It's always been about stripping away the noise around sex, intimacy, and money to figure out what actually makes us tick—and connect.Look, credentials are fine. Diplomas look nice on a wall. But nothing—and I mean nothing—teaches you about the human heart like sitting across from a couple whose sex life is in a coma, or a guy who just blew his savings on a dating app subscription trying to impress someone who never really saw him. That’s where I earned my stripes. It’s not about textbook definitions. It’s about the raw, unpolished truth. And maybe that's why I can walk down Montcalm Boulevard and see not just the street, but the layers of stories in every house. That's the kind of competence that matters. The kind you can't fake.Living in Candiac is... well, it’s a specific kind of peace. It’s the sound of the Saint-Jacques River after it’s rained. It’s the sight of the kids playing soccer in Parc de la Mairie while their parents argue quietly on a bench about their weekend plans—or lack thereof. I live over on Georges-Goyau, near the bike path that runs along the river. In the summer, I’ll grab a coffee from that little shop on Bl. Monchamp and just watch. You see everything here. The young couple, all nervous energy on their first real date at the Marché Public. The long-married pair, comfortable in their silence, walking their labrador. This town is a living, breathing case study in relationships. And I’ve got a front-row seat.Growing up in Westminster was... normal. Maybe too normal. My dad sold insurance. My mom was a nurse. We had a lawn. We had a dog. But I was the weird kid asking questions nobody wanted to answer. Like, why do we whisper the word sex? Why do my friends act completely different around girls? Why is the most natural thing on earth treated like a state secret? That curiosity followed me everywhere. It got me into trouble, sure. But it also got me out of Colorado. I moved east, eventually landing in Montreal for grad school at Université du Québec à Montréal (UQAM). Studied sexology. And then... life. A fellowship here, a research gig there. I worked at a clinic on René-Lévesque for a while, dealing with everything from performance anxiety to infidelity. It was intense. But it was real. It taught me that our deepest desires and our deepest fears are often the same thing.March 21st, 1982. St. Anthony North Hospital, Westminster, Colorado. My mom always said I arrived in a hurry, which... honestly? Still true. She said the nurses were flirting with the young doctor while she was in labor, and my dad was just pacing, looking out the window at the flat, endless Colorado horizon. It was a different world. Reagan was in the White House. Gas was like a dollar. The idea that their kid would one day be an expert on dating apps and the economics of intimacy would have seemed... insane. Probably still does to them, sometimes. But that's where the story started. In a beige hospital room, with the Rocky Mountains just a faint smudge to the west.For years, my activity was in the trenches. Clinical work. Private practice. Running workshops on communication in relationships—which, let's be honest, is just code for how to fight fair and then have really good make-up sex. I consulted for a few dating apps, trying to get them to understand that algorithms can't measure chemistry. That was... frustrating. And lucrative. Which brings me to now. I'm writing for the CamoWallet project. It's a different kind of intimacy. It's about how we protect what we build, the financial architecture of our lives. Money and relationships—they're the same conversation, you know? Who holds the power? Who's investing? Who's just along for the ride? Writing these articles from my home office in Candiac, looking out at the trees changing color, lets me tie it all together. The history of this place, the feel of its streets, the quiet hum of its life—it all informs how I see the connections people try to forge, online and off.
