Growing up and living in Yugoslavia and Serbia, especially after becoming aware of and beginning to live openly as a queer person, many Western countries long appeared to me as places to aspire to. The rule of law, freedom of movement, the possibility of marriage, adoption — all of this easily creates the impression that queer lives there are necessarily safer, more stable, and more valued.
It is important to say this clearly from the start: we cannot and must not equate the situation in Western European countries with contexts in which queer people are still subjected to the death penalty or systematic state persecution. These differences are real and significant.
And yet, what genuinely surprised me after emigrating was how deeply unsafe everyday reality remains, despite formal rights.
In countries such as the Netherlands, there are still many reported and unreported physical attacks against LGBTIQ+ people. On the street where we once lived, barely a hundred meters from our home, an older gay man was murdered. Several young men beat him to death. The perpetrators were arrested quickly, but that does not change the core reality: this is not a society in which queer people can feel completely safe.
I have met people who remember the time when homosexuality was criminalized, when entire families were stigmatized if it became known that someone was queer. I have also met people who spent most of their lives unaware of their identity — gay, trans, bi — and who still, decades later, hide this from everyone in their lives.
For this reason, it is essential to understand that minority stress does not refer only to the fear of physical violence. Physical danger is only one visible layer. It exists across the world to varying degrees, but it is not the only — nor necessarily the most destructive — form.
Minority Stress Is Not Only Physical Insecurity
One of the deeper and more enduring forms of minority stress is religious trauma. Dominant religious institutions and authorities continue to teach that queer identities are sinful, that queer love is sinful, that queer people will not be accepted. For queer people who are religious, or who grew up in religious environments, this often creates an impossible choice: either to question teachings and authorities they were taught from childhood to trust — which is often extremely difficult — or to question their own worth, love, and right to exist.
The consequences of this split almost always remain. They may not be visible on the outside, but they are deeply felt internally: as alienation from oneself, from one’s needs and feelings, and as a lasting erosion of safety, belonging, and self-worth.
Religion, Family, and Cultural Violence
Another important layer of minority stress appears in statistics on homelessness among queer youth. Rates of homelessness are significantly higher than in the cis-heterosexual population. This means that large numbers of young people are forced out of their homes because of their gender identity or sexual orientation. For some parents, their children’s queerness is so unacceptable that they would rather leave them without shelter. And in many countries, this is still legal.
There is also what can be described as cultural violence. Heteronormativity, cisnormativity, and mononormativity are deeply embedded in how societies function and in the value systems they reproduce. From a very early age, children are taught that there are only “straight boys and girls,” that they will grow up, marry one person, and have children. Everything outside this framework becomes invisible, wrong, or dangerous.
For queer people, this means learning very early that parts of themselves are not safe to show. When these patterns are absorbed before becoming conscious, they continue to operate internally as an internalized system of values. This system divides the queer self into what a person truly is and what they are “allowed” to be in order to remain safe, accepted, and worthy. Often, this means that a person hides who they are not only from others, but from themselves.
Why the Sense of Insecurity Persists in the West
Here it is important to be precise. Different forms of oppression cannot and should not be ranked by severity. Still, queer experience carries a particular feature that intensifies minority stress: queer people rarely grow up in families that share their identity. They rarely have access to queer culture, language, and community in early life. This means that support, mirroring, and continuity are often absent precisely where they are most needed — within the family and immediate environment.
The internet today can be an important source of connection and support, but it cannot fully replace a sense of rootedness, bodily safety, and lived belonging. Alienation, psychological insecurity, and fear of rejection remain realities for many queer people, even in societies that formally present themselves as “free.”
So how is a queer person not supposed to fear rejection? How can someone develop a sense of belonging, safety, and the right to exist fully as they are?
These questions do not have quick or simple answers. But asking them is not a sign of personal weakness. They are reasonable questions in a world that is not neutral and not equally safe for everyone. Queer pain is not an individual failure — it is a comprehensible response to long-term exposure to systemic, often invisible violence.