*This is reported by HuffPost.

For queer people like me, the desire to move to a different country often stems from a deep curiosity about what lies beyond what we are allowed to embody here in the U.S. — a restlessness, as one interviewee told me, to understand ourselves uninhibited by the weight of social expectations.

Others leave out of fear, scrambling to find a safer haven where they’re not treated like political pawns. With an election marked by an abundance of anti-queer rhetoric from conservatives and even silence from Democrats on trans rights, moving abroad may soon become a reality for many queer Americans.

Navigating the world as queer individuals involves questions that many take for granted: Would I find community? Is the health care affirming? If parts of America do not feel like a queer haven, is there a promised land awaiting somewhere else? As I’ve learned, so many LGBTQ Americans of all ages have found their home abroad — and some of their overseas journeys began with a spontaneous swipe.

When Bill McKinley, 64, matched with a Spaniard named Ricardo on Big Muscle Bears, a dating website, 14 years ago, the Indiana native had no idea his Midwestern life was about to be upended forever.

Growing up between Indianapolis and Muncie, Indiana—a place he describes to me as “the most average town in America”— McKinley was forced into conversion therapy for several years, a life chapter he detailed in a 2022 HuffPost article.

While his parents later converted to The Church of Christ, a more queer-welcoming denomination, their earlier parenting was shaped by their profoundly devout Catholicism. His experiences led to advocacy work as a young adult and he eventually found his support system and became a gay-rights activist, actor and performer.

McKinley always thought he would call the United States home, but after talking to Ricardo for almost a year, he decided to visit him for three weeks in his Madrid home and soon fell in love. Despite returning to Indiana for 11 months, he permanently settled in the Spanish capital in the fall of 2011. On Valentine’s Day 2012, he and Ricardo got married. “I didn’t leave the United States; I came to Ricardo,” he says, when reflecting on the big move.

Now living in Chueca, “the world’s largest gay neighborhood,” as he describes it, McKinley cannot picture himself far from the quaint streets of low-rise, custard-colored buildings that fill Madrid’s downtown. “I can’t imagine going back to the United States,” he says. “I don’t know that we would ever live somewhere else.”

For queer people like McKinley, life outside the American border can offer a renewed sense of freedom and security — whether or not it was longed for — and places like Barcelona, Bogotá or Paris can become havens for the queer community.

Living abroad as a queer American is part of a broad historical trend, with literary icons such as James Baldwin and Audre Lorde standing out as two of its most influential examples. Baldwin settled down in France in 1948 and Lorde spent several years in Berlin in the 80s. Through works like Lorde’s “Berlin Is Hard on Colored Girls” and Baldwin’s ”Giovanni’s Room,” both writers inspired a generation of queer Americans — especially queer people of color — to venture beyond their homeland.

Moved by Baldwin’s legacy, Prince Shakur, a 30-year-old gay artist and author of ”When They Tell You To Be Good,” became curious about Paris. The Jamaican-American writer ended up living there for three years over several intervals. During this time, he became involved in the city’s protest scene, particularly around the Nuit Debout demonstrations.

As a Black American, he was shocked by the way police treated activists in France. “Their relation to Blackness felt a little less violent compared to America,” he tells me. Living there, he says, partly liberated him from certain constraints racial minorities experience in the U.S. “Being queer and Black, I get a little more freedom … that made it easier for me to have fun and feel comfortable.”

The term “freedom” was frequently used by the LGBTQ+ Americans now living abroad whom I spoke with. Moving to Barcelona about two-and-a-half years ago allowed Lars Wenzel, a 30-year-old queer man, to disclose his transness on his own terms. For Wenzel, who was already a foreign exchange student in Italy in 2010, moving there was an affirming experience — one that resonates with many in the LGBTQ community.

“Diasporic travel can be really appealing to queer people, because in terms of relationships with people that have known us since we were little, there’s this framework of, ‘This is who you always were,’” Wenzel says. His words resonate; even though anti-queerness does exist in every corner of the world, there’s something to be said about intentionally distancing yourself from a past that you no longer believe serves you.

In New York, where Wenzel lived before moving to Barcelona, the LGBTQ+ community felt quite siloed to him, especially in nightlife. Each letter stayed within their own bubbles, he says. Barcelona’s queer spaces felt more porous, reflecting a culture that is less fixated on identity compared to the American one. “Even in the Spanish language, how people talk about queerness with terms like travesti and maricón, all these things flow together. It doesn’t feel so important to understand exactly what words you use to describe yourself,” he says. “Queerness feels more cultural than identity-focused.”

Access to free health care is another reason Wenzel decided to settle down in Barcelona. As a trans person, his identity constantly relies on good medical care, he says, but Spain’s universal coverage also provides him with a sense of safety regarding his overall sexual health. According to recent OECD data, 53% of Americans primarily relied on private health insurance, 38% on public coverage, and 9% remained uninsured, whereas the public system in Spain covers over 99% of the population. “Having unprotected sex doesn’t mean that you could be putting someone at risk of a medical bill,” he says. “And there’s very little stigma surrounding STIs and HIV.”

Ben Seaman, a 58-year-old queer man who grew up in a “WASP household with a lot of emotional repression,” as he describes it, between Kansas and Connecticut, echoes Wenzel’s sentiment. A painter and a psychotherapist, Seaman always gravitated toward Spanish people and culture, and since the ’90s, he has been visiting Madrid, a city he initially thought was “a bit behind in terms of technology” compared to New York, but “more open in terms of gay life.”

Once he turned 50 and started to look for places to spend his “third and final childhood,” the Spanish capital was on top of his list. Along with his husband, he spent five weeks there this spring and their connection to the city’s vibrant social fabric grew even stronger. But feeling safe and well-treated by the Spanish health care system was a crucial factor in his decision. “They [healthcare system] are here to help you, and they don’t divide into insured and uninsured,” he says. “They just keep people healthy.” Next month, Seaman will finally settle down in Madrid.

Safety, however, encompasses more than just having access to quality health care. For Lola Mendez, a 35-year-old pansexual journalist who grew up in Kansas and moved to Chiang Mai, Thailand, this past March, the United States’ gun violence epidemic drove her to leave the country. And she doesn’t plan to return anytime soon. “If you’re under 18, your most likely cause of death is a gunshot,” Mendez says. “I can’t live in a society where I could be killed at any given moment.”

And in an increasingly hostile legislative environment for the trans community, some queer Americans have even sought legal protections abroad. Eric (who prefers to use a pseudonym for safety purposes) is a 40-year-old queer person from Arizona who was living in Ohio with his wife and their 5-year-old daughter, a trans girl, when state lawmakers started to push for bills targeting the trans community.

Fearing for their child’s safety, they flew to Ireland in March and applied for asylum there. “We didn’t have plans, we didn’t know anybody here, but we just needed to get out,” he tells me. Although he is still waiting for his case to be resolved, he remains hopeful about their future life in Ireland. “They put us in housing in one of the most conservative counties in the country, so that didn’t super work for us, but it’s already safer than the U.S.,” he says.

After our interview took place, he and his family were moved to Cork, a more progressive city, and their daughter has enrolled in school. “Everyone from teachers to principal were amazing and affirming, and she has a bunch of other little girls trying to make friends with her here,” he said.

Moving to a place that is affirming and protective of queer identity is essential, but for many American immigrants, access to community and LGBTQ spaces is also crucial. After growing up in South Florida and attending college in Maine, Tasha Sandoval, a 33-year-old queer journalist, decided to move to Bogotá, where she was born, in 2019 to reconnect with her roots. She eventually returned to New York, but this March, she took advantage of her work flexibility and gave Bogotá another chance.

While other Colombian places such as Medellín feel relatively conservative, Bogotá stands out as a cosmopolitan and diverse city where the queer community thrives within a vibrant cultural scene, Sandoval says. “This time around feels like it has more potential. I feel more queerness around me,” she adds.

After spending two years in San José, Costa Rica, Aaron Bailey finally built a community there — one centered around queer friendships. The 47-year-old gay Michigan native experienced a midlife crisis in Denver, his former home, and purchased a vacation house in the Central American country, where he eventually found himself spending more time.

The house, located in a tourist and transient area, felt detached from the local society, so he moved to the capital. Bailey describes it as more queer-friendly and safe and says he now feels integrated into the community, and so Costa Rica has come to feel like his new home. “At this point, I can’t imagine leaving Costa Rica; certainly I can’t imagine moving back to the United States,” he says. “I feel really settled and rooted here, and that’s something I haven’t felt in decades in the United States.”

Living abroad has its own set of challenges, and many queer immigrants carry a guilt around leaving loved ones that sinks deep, no matter the number of calls and Sunday morning FaceTimes. The black screen will always look back at you, reminding you of the missed 30th birthday and the wedding you will never attend — but it is a price many deem worth it.

“I will do absolutely everything I can to help any person who wants to get out of the United States get connected with resources,” Wenzel says.