"I still cry at night sometimes." Queer people and loneliness in exile

Hi. It's me, Michelle. I’m writing from my apartment in a new country. Outside the window is a fiery sunset; below, the city bustles in the evening, and that bustle already almost feels familiar. Almost. Because it’s familiar—in a foreign language. I immigrated ten years ago. Almost eleven. I’ve been living in Spain for almost a year—a country where I can breathe more freely.

I left to escape homophobia, pressure, and the fear of being myself. I lived in Russia for ten years, and for reasons we all understand all too well, I had to pack up my life and leave again.I thought that during this second wave of immigration, now in the “free world,” everything would finally fall into place. And in many ways, it really has. I’ve made friends, including Spanish-speaking ones. I’m learning all over again how to build a home—not out of walls, but out of people, conversations, and warmth.

But reality is still reality. Loneliness as an immigrant is more than just homesickness. This isn’t about “missing the familiar streets.” It’s a deep, almost physical pain from losing everything that once made you whole. Immigration is freedom. But it’s also emptiness. It’s a chance to start over. But it’s also the need to relearn how to be yourself. What do we do about this? Let’s talk about it honestly—just like in my diary. Without pretty filters or slogans about a “new life.” Because staying silent about this means sinking even deeper.

The Loss of a Family: When Blood Is Thicker Than Water

Family is an anchor. But for many of us queer immigrants, it eventually turns into a chain that we have to break with our own hands.

We grew up believing that family is a source of support, unconditional love, and a place we can always return to. But for many queer people from conservative countries—such as Russia or Kyrgyzstan—the reality turns out to be different. Coming out can cost you your home. Honesty can cost you your safety. And trying to be yourself can cost you your very connection to your family. Studies on migrants with diverse sexual orientations and gender identities show that the loss of family support is one of the most painful and traumatic experiences. It is directly linked to an increased risk of depression, anxiety, and chronic stress. Because when a person loses their family, they lose not only the people themselves—they lose their sense of belonging.

Here, we begin to build a “chosen family” made up of friends, partners, neighbors—people who accept us unconditionally. And that is incredibly valuable. Sometimes it’s even deeper and more genuine than blood ties. But a chosen family doesn’t appear in the first month. Or the second. Trust grows slowly. Closeness takes time. But loneliness doesn’t wait. It comes right away. It sits down next to you in an empty room and tests whether you can endure the silence. And yet we keep building. Brick by brick. Conversation by conversation. Dinner by dinner.

Because a broken chain is painful.

But it's also a space for freedom.

Loss of Language: Words That Are Not Spoken

Back home, I could be sharp, funny, and bold. I could play with words in Russian so that every joke hit the mark. I could sense the nuances—when to emphasize, when to soften, and when to remain silent so that the silence spoke louder than any words. But here, in exile, I sometimes feel as if I’m reduced to a stripped-down version of myself. I mumble in broken Spanish, choose my words slowly, and construct sentences carefully—and half of my personality simply doesn’t fit into this vocabulary. Jokes get lost in translation. Flirting sounds too direct or too timid. An argument turns into a series of simple sentences, lacking both depth and playfulness.

You seem to be the same person—but you sound different. And that gives me a strange feeling: as if part of you has remained in another language.

And if you’re queer, that feeling is even stronger. Because you have to explain not only who you are, but also where you’re from. How do you explain to locals what it means to be queer in the post-Soviet space? How do you convey this cultural baggage—the shame, secrecy, double life, fear of exposure, and internal censorship that’s been ingrained in you for years?

And at moments like that, you really do feel like an alien. Not because there’s anything wrong with you, but because your planet speaks a different language.

Building a New Identity: From Fragments to a Mosaic

Emigration is a rebirth. It’s a beautiful word, almost poetic.

But in reality, it's surgery without anesthesia.

You find yourself without the familiar ground beneath your feet, and you ask yourself a question that has never sounded so loud before: Who am I, if I were to strip away the city, the language, the past, the roles, and the expectations? Who am I—without roots?

For queer people, emigration often becomes an opportunity to be authentic. Back home, many of us lived in survival mode—hiding, choosing our words carefully, controlling our gestures, and adjusting our voices. Here, we can be open. We don’t have to look over our shoulders. We can hold hands and talk about love without having to lower our voices.

But freedom also comes at a price.

Price is saying goodbye to the old version of yourself.

I started experimenting. New hairstyles. New hobbies. A new style. New ways of talking about myself. It was like trying on different lives—as if, for the first time, I’d been given the right to choose who I wanted to be. And there was a lot of joy in that.

But at first, it was scary.

Because if you change, it means you’ve truly left your old self behind. And along with it—the familiar pain, but also the familiar stability.

After all, loneliness in exile isn't a death sentence. It's a phase. A difficult, drawn-out, sometimes endless one—but still just a phase.

It lays things bare. It strips away everything unnecessary. It reveals who stays by your side and who fades away as the distance grows. It teaches you to rebuild connections—not out of habit, not out of fear of being alone, but out of genuine closeness. Slowly. Consciously. Honestly.

If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself in it—know this: you’re not alone. Your feelings aren’t “too dramatic.” Your exhaustion isn’t “exaggerated.” Emigration is a huge undertaking, especially when you’re queer and carry a whole cultural baggage of pain and survival on your shoulders.

I still cry sometimes at night. But in the morning, I get up. I wash my face. I write. I study. I love. And I move on.

Because we, as queer immigrants, are stronger than we give ourselves credit for. We’ve already done the impossible—we’ve chosen ourselves. And that takes tremendous courage.

Let's stick together. Even if there are borders, visas, and different languages between us.

Even if we only know each other through a screen.

The connection still exists.