Immigration is back in the headlines.
Again.
But beneath the familiar headlines about border security and deportation flights, another story is quietly unfolding—one that involves nearly 640,000 LGBTQ+ immigrants living in the U.S., many of whom exist in legal limbo. Around 288,000 of them are undocumented, living under policies that rarely account for the specific vulnerabilities that come with being both queer and non-citizen.
It’s a story that doesn’t shout. But it matters for our survival.
Border Talk, Shifting Tides
In early 2025, the U.S. reintroduced a series of immigration directives not unlike those from a few years prior: troop deployments to the southern border, the end of humanitarian parole programs, and a revived “Remain in Mexico” policy for asylum seekers. Sweeping changes, yes—but for many in the LGBTQ+ community, this marks a continuation, not a departure.
The Williams Institute notes that LGBTQ+ immigrants are not only disproportionately impacted by deportation policies, but often face elevated risks when sent back to countries where their identities are criminalized.
Same-sex intimacy remains illegal in 61 countries, with 7 imposing the death penalty.
It’s a global reality that immigration policies can’t afford to ignore.
Our community cannot afford to allow this to permeate, but if we don’t know what’s actually going on, we cannot stop the hemorrhaging of deaths of our people.
Prove You’re One of Us
In asylum hearings, claims based on sexual orientation or gender identity are rare but remarkably consistent: over 98% of them are found to present a credible or reasonable fear of persecution. And yet, the burden is still on the claimant to “prove” their queerness—to describe the contours of desire in the cold language of bureaucracy.
But what does that look like when you’ve spent your entire life in survival mode?
Take a young gay man from Mexico, raised under a culture of machismo where any softness was ridiculed, and “jokes” about curing homosexuality came with a clenched fist. He didn’t go to Pride. He didn’t date. He didn’t dare speak. He learned that safety meant silence, not self-expression.
Or consider a lesbian in Russia, where laws criminalize “gay propaganda” and the simple act of being visible can lead to arrest—or worse, to violence swept under the rug as “unprovoked.” She never came out. She never held her girlfriend’s hand in public. Her queerness was lived in code, in glances, in dreams.
And in Poland, imagine a nonbinary teenager living in a town where LGBTQ+ “free zones” are not just slogans but policy. They’ve been disowned by family, denied healthcare, and targeted at school. There is no safe place. Even pronouns are politicized.
Now picture all three in an immigration office, asked to explain their queerness to someone who’s never lived it. Someone who may think queerness looks like dating apps and rainbow parades. Who may ask why they don’t have photos, partners, or a “gay community” back home.
For them, queerness wasn’t something expressed. It was something you buried. And now they’re being told that unless they can exhume it convincingly—they might be sent back.
Between the Lines in Canada
Canada, often viewed as more progressive on immigration compared to the USA, is not immune to tightening policies. While the language may be less incendiary than in U.S. politics, there are growing concerns about the pace and accessibility of asylum processes. Processing delays, stricter admissibility rules, and rising political attention to border enforcement suggest a gradual shift in tone.
None of this necessarily signals a dramatic reversal. But when policy leans toward caution, marginalized groups are often the first to feel its weight. The danger isn’t always in the declaration—it’s in the drift.
Detention Isn’t Neutral
Increased deportations don’t just mean removals. They also mean more detentions—spaces that studies have repeatedly shown to be particularly harmful for LGBTQ+ individuals.
For example, a 2024 report by Immigration Equality documented the case of a transgender woman from Honduras who was held in U.S. immigration detention for months. During her confinement, she was placed in solitary “for her safety”, denied hormone therapy, and subjected to verbal harassment by guards. Her experience was not unique. The report found that LGBTQ+ and HIV-positive detainees often face extended periods in isolation, lack access to necessary medical care, and experience heightened risk of sexual assault.
Trans immigrants, for example, are disproportionately subjected to solitary confinement, often framed as protective custody. HIV+ detainees report denials of necessary medication and access to basic healthcare. Even the UNHCR has raised concerns about the conditions in which asylum seekers—particularly those in vulnerable populations—are held.
None of this is new. But the volume may rise, and with it, the consequences.
Where This Is Headed (and Why It Matters)
This moment isn’t just about what policies are changing—it’s describes what narratives are taking shape. As countries struggle to create solutions for concerns over sovereignty, security, and social cohesion, immigration debates are shifting from urgent humanitarian needs toward administrative control and national interest.
For LGBTQ+ immigrants—especially those without documentation—this creates a climate of quiet uncertainty. They are rarely named in headlines, but the policies affect them all the same.
If the 2020s have shown us anything, it’s that visibility without infrastructure doesn’t offer protection. Being seen helps. Being supported matters more.
Holding Complexity, Building Connection
It’s tempting to respond to each new policy with panic or protest. But what’s also needed is space for deeper understanding: of how identities intersect, of how systems work (or don’t), and of what kinds of protections must be built for long-term stability—not just reactive safety.
There’s reason for concern, yes. But also for clarity. The tides are shifting—not crashing. And in those undercurrents are opportunities to shape what comes next.
Because queer migration isn’t just a border story. It’s a human one.
What are your thoughts? Do you feel we should consider sexual identity in such cases?
Let us know in the comments below.
It’s heartbreaking, but unfortunately not surprising, to read about the compounded risks that come from living at the intersection of two marginalized identities. The fear of deportation combined with discrimination based on gender identity or sexual orientation creates a level of vulnerability that most people simply don’t understand unless they’ve lived it.
What stood out to me most was the lack of legal protection and access to resources. Many undocumented LGBTQ+ individuals avoid seeking help—even when they’re victims of violence or harassment—because the risk of being detained or deported is so high. That kind of fear leads to isolation, exploitation, and serious mental health consequences, yet it’s rarely discussed in broader conversations about immigration or LGBTQ+ rights.