Between two worlds: Being queer, Korean and an immigrant in Canada

Growing up invisible

In Korea, being LGBTQ+ wasn’t something people openly hated — it was something they refused to acknowledge. It wasn’t just frowned upon; it simply didn’t exist. Even my closest friends, people I had known for years, never questioned my sexuality. Not because I hid it well, but because it never even crossed their minds as a possibility.

In grade six, in the late ’90s, I started feeling different, but I had no words for it. My heart raced when I was around my classmate — was it admiration? Idolization? What else was there?

In middle school, those feelings took shape when I fell in love with my best friend. It was confusing, exhilarating and terrifying all at once. But I had nowhere to turn for answers. When I tried searching for “homosexuality“ online, the screen went blank: “forbidden word.“ It wasn’t just that I wasn’t accepted — I wasn’t even allowed to ask questions.

Later, in high school, I fell in love again — this time with a classmate. The emotions were just as intense, lingering for two years. But in a culture where queerness was invisible, where there were no LGBTQ+ role models, no safe spaces, my love could only exist in silence.

Meanwhile, around me laughed at homophobic jokes. Some of my Christian classmates called it a sin and said gay people were going to hell. Others believed it was a mental illness, something that could or should be ’fixed.’

And someone I trusted, someone close to me, outright said:

“They should be stabbed to death.“

I sat next to them, silent. Expressionless. Nodding along.

What else could I do?

So I trained myself not to feel. I became emotionless, unreadable, untouchable. Not because I wanted to — but because that was the only way to survive.

For over a decade, I carried the weight of selfhatred, internalized homophobia and guilt. Even in a crowded room, I felt like a ghost — watching life happen around me. I became smaller, quieter, easier to overlook. My voice, my expressions, my emotions — all of it faded behind the mask I wore.

I wasn’t living. I was hiding in plain sight.

A window to another life

Years later, my world expanded when I met my first serious boyfriend. Through him, I entered a new social circle — straight, native English-speaking teachers from the U.S., Canada and the U.K. For the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to explain myself. These people weren’t queer, but they didn’t need me to pretend. They just let me be. At the same time, I was watching shows like Glee, seeing queer people not just struggling, but living — finding love, happiness, community. That’s when I knew: If I stayed in Korea, I would never be free.

Expectations vs. reality

After years of perseverance, I moved to Canada in late 2018. I was already over 30, and believed everything would change overnight. I thought I would finally be free — free to be open, to date without fear, to belong.

And in many ways, I was. I could walk down the street without worrying about being seen. I could exist without lying. I could work without fearing discrimination.

In Korea, queerness was whispered about, hidden. Here, it was everywhere. Couples held hands without hesitation, laughing and loving without shame — something I had never seen before. No one flinched at the sight of queer joy. It wasn’t whispered about — it was lived, out in the open. To those around me, it was normal. To me, it still felt unreal.

I had imagined that moving to a more accepting country would erase years of self-censorship, and that I would naturally fit into the LGBTQ+ community. Although the LGBTQ+ community welcomed me, it was not the same as connection. Conversations moved fast, filled with pop culture references I didn’t always understand. At times, I felt more foreign than in Korea, being seen as Asian first, and queer second.

I had escaped invisibility in one way, only to encounter it in another.

Vancouver is known for its beauty, its diversity — and its loneliness. Plans fell apart easily, and even in social settings, it was easy to feel disconnected. Like everyone else, I was searching for real friendships.

After years of working so hard to get here, I found myself wondering: Now what?

That’s when J became a meaningful part of my life.

He is someone who has helped me feel more connected, experience more joy, and remind me that life is meant to be lived. I deserve that. I appreciate him for what he brings into my life, even if our relationship isn’t always simple.

Even after leaving Korea, I was still searching for my place. I was free, but I wasn’t fully seen.

Understanding my identity

People often think coming out is a single event, but for me, it has been a slow process.

I told my sister I was gay in 2015, after the U.S. legalized same-sex marriage. Watching an entire country change overnight felt like the world was shifting, like a door had opened. For the first time, I wasn’t just wishing for change — I was ready to be part of it.

My mother struggled to understand — at first, she thought I had erectile dysfunction. She still doesn’t fully get it, but I know she loves me in her own way.

Even now, I still haven’t come out to my father. But maybe, one day, I can let him read this.

For years, I thought that leaving Korea would mean erasing the parts of me that didn’t belong. But identity isn’t about choosing one culture over another — it’s about embracing all the pieces of who I am.

Breaking the silence

In Korea, I learned that survival wasn’t just about hiding — it was about finding others like me, even in silence. Being gay in a society that refused to acknowledge us taught me the importance of solidarity. When you have no protection, you only survive by standing together.

But when I moved to Canada, I realized something else: those in power don’t just ignore us — they divide us. They turn us against each other, keeping us focused on our differences so we never look up and see who’s really in control.

The isolation I felt in Korea wasn’t just about my sexuality. The struggle to belong in Canada wasn’t just about being an immigrant. The barriers, the fear, the constant feeling of not being enough — these weren’t just personal struggles. They were systemic. And I wasn’t the only one facing them.

I still imagine sometimes — if I had grown up in a world that accepted me, if Korea had been more open when I was young, confused and fragile — would I have been happier? Would I have thrived instead of just surviving?

Korea wasn’t always kind to me, but I still hope it will change, that the next generation will live better than I did.

But change doesn’t happen on its own. It happens when people refuse to stay silent.

Most people see politics as distant and irrelevant — something that doesn’t touch them. But I’ve seen what happens when people look away. I’ve lived the cost of silence, and that’s why I want to help. No one — LGBTQ+ people, minorities, anyone struggling — should have to go through this alone. I know what it’s like to feel invisible.

I am Korean, and I am queer. I am an immigrant, but that is not all I am — I am still writing my own story.

Seungjong (Owen) (he/him) is a Korean-born pharmacist living in Canada. His writing explores identity, belonging and the intersection of queerness and immigration.