Written by Wannida Arthitpong
“It’s easier to be a straight woman.” As someone who’s lived as an LBQ+ (lesbian, bisexual, queer) woman for years, I sometimes can’t help but think this—and it’s not just a thought. I know it to be true. We live in a world built by men, and one that still revolves around men and their priorities. Being assigned female at birth is already difficult, but being a woman who loves women—being LBQ+—is even more so.
When I first came out as a woman who loves women, I was living in Bangkok. At the time, marriage equality hadn’t yet been legally recognised, but I didn’t feel entirely alone or invisible. I had a community of queer and lesbian friends, and also there were spaces—both social and political—where I could exist, connect, and belong. I still saw reflections of myself in others around me. It made me feel that maybe, being a queer woman wouldn’t make life all that difficult.
Now, I live in a rural province far from the capital city. Being openly LBQ+ here is much more difficult. In a small town, being different makes you stand out. I always have to monitor how I act or express myself. Over time, this self-surveillance has made me feel constrained, uneasy, and increasingly disconnected from my authentic self.
I’ve also seen how unequal access to resources really is. When I lived in Bangkok, there were queer gatherings, community organizations, and networks of support I could turn to. Here, in rural space, there’s nothing — no safe spaces, no mutual support, no visible community. Queer lives are still centered and resourced in urban areas. There’s also a clear economic disparity. People in rural areas have fewer job opportunities and limited pathways for financial autonomy. And it’s even harder for those living in conservative or religiously dominated communities where only heterosexuality is recognised as legitimate.
In early February 2025, I joined an LBQ+ forum hosted by the Asia Feminist LBQ Network and Backyard Politics. The space brought together a vibrant spectrum of identities—lesbians, sapphics, bisexual and pansexual women, non-binary folks, asexuals, and other queer people—from across Thailand and from multigeneration. We shared personal and collective stories, speaking honestly about the structural and everyday challenges we continue to face. One thing became very clear: even though marriage equality has now been legally recognised in Thailand, many deep-rooted beliefs and social attitudes remain unchanged. LBQ+ people still encounter many barriers — embedded in institutions, in social expectations, and in economic systems. We also deal with internal struggles, stigma, and the lack of spaces to understand ourselves or come together as a community. All of this has a profound impact on our well-being and the overall security of our lives.
Moreover, various intersecting factors—such as layered identities, place of residence, social roles, occupation, and age—shape the lived realities of LBQ+ individuals in different ways. Our situations are not uniform. Our lives are woven into a society that may appear accepting on the surface, yet beneath that appearance lies a persistent undercurrent of exclusion and microaggressions that we face both consciously and unconsciously.
Structural and Everyday Barriers Facing LBQ+ Communities in Thailand
Being LBQ+ in Thai society is not easy. While public discourse around gender and sexual diversity has expanded in recent years, and legal recognition of marriage rights for all genders has now been achieved, many barriers remain. These come from deep-rooted social structures and biases within families, religious teachings, culturally entrenched gender roles, and normative expectations around partnership and marriage. These expectations directly impact how LBQ+ people live, access their rights, experience joy and health, and define our identities.
Family: The First Barrier
For many participants in the LBQ+ forum, the most immediate and painful barriers begin at home. Families often reinforce rigid gender roles and expectations for women — whether it’s the pressure to “act like a proper woman” according to patriarchal norms or the assumption that one must marry a man and build a heterosexual family unit consisting only of a “father” (a man) and a “mother” (a woman). These expectations weigh heavily on LBQ+ individuals. When we have partners, some parents won’t acknowledge them. They might refer to our partners as “just friends,” or dismiss our sexuality and gender identities as a “mistake” or a “phase.”. Many still believe that a “real” marriage must involve a man. Relationships between women are often seen as temporary detours before an inevitable return to heterosexuality. This makes our love feel invisible and devalued. And even if it’s never said directly, this quiet kind of rejection still hurts.
When our families don’t recognize or support our relationships, many of them begin to worry: If you don’t marry a man or have children, who will care for you when you grow old? This concern is tied to the lack of a strong social welfare system in Thailand, one that should allow people to age with dignity, security, and independence. Because of this pressure, many of us are forced to constantly choose between living the life we truly want or preserving the bond with those we love.
Besides, there’s also a strong social expectation for the role of the “daughter” to be caregivers in the family—especially for LBQ+ daughters who are single, or even those who are partnered but not married in a traditional, heterosexual way. They’re often seen as not having a “real” family or major responsibilities, so they’re expected to take on the primary role of caring for aging parents. Because of this perception, they’re often seen as the ones who should make sacrifices for the sake of the family.
I’m one of many who have found themselves caught in the trap of these social expectations. Returning home to care for my parents was a choice I made— but I can’t deny that a part of my decision was shaped by what my family expected of me. It becomes even clearer when I compare myself to my younger brother who has a girlfriend and is never asked to return home or take on this role. The belief is that he has his own family now, while I, because my partner is a woman, am still seen as single—free, and therefore more available to be here. As daughters — whether we’re LBQ+ or simply unmarried — we’re often expected to set aside our careers, our dreams, or personal lives to care for our families. Living in this reality means we’re constantly forced to choose between being true to ourselves or compromising to meet the expectations of our families and society.
What’s striking is that these things are rarely talked about. Sometimes, even we ourselves don’t pause to question them. If we don’t take the time to reflect deeply and unpack these experiences, we might never realize just how deeply these beliefs shape our decisions and affect our emotional well-being.
Religion, Culture, and Social Beliefs
Same-sex love continues to be stigmatized and discriminated against under religious beliefs — in most cases, interpreted through the lens of men raised in patriarchal, heteronormative cultures. Within this interpretation, LBQ+ identities are framed as sinful, something to be corrected or a form of karma to be repaid. As a result, LBQ+ individuals who are part of religious traditions, or who live in deeply religious or conservative communities, often feel pressured to hide who they are. If they choose to live openly, it can come at a heavy cost: being denied work opportunities, facing pressure or rejection from their families and neighbours, or being marked as morally wrong.
“In [province], if you want a better job, they only hire women who wear the hijab. I had to wear one in high school, but after I graduated, I stopped. I cut my hair short. After that, I couldn’t find a job — just because I didn’t wear the hijab. I once got a job but was fired after just a day and a half. Someone told me it was because I wasn’t wearing one. I felt I was being treated unfairly at work because of how I looked — a woman with short, tomboyish hair. After I cut my hair short and carried myself in a more masculine way, I noticed they started assigning me the tougher tasks, more than what others were asked to do.”
In many deeply religious communities, women are still expected to follow a set path – to marry a man, become a wife, and have children.
“Even though I’m in a relationship with a woman now, my religion teaches that every woman should have a husband. So I’ve had to quietly accept that. As I get older, people start asking when I’ll start a family. They say it because they care, I know that — but it still hurts.”
This experience can be quite different from that of gay men, who often still have more options in society simply by being male. In many families, married men still hold more social and cultural power than women. They tend to have more freedom in how they live — whether it’s the freedom to travel, work (or not work), or choose how to spend their free time. Married women, on the other hand, are often expected to live under the authority or ‘leadership’ of their husbands. They’re expected to ask permission before doing things, and many choices are already quietly denied by cultural norms. This makes life for LBQ+ women much more complex and constrained.
Religion, culture, and long-held beliefs like these can lead many LBQ+ people to feel ashamed of who they are. They create a sense that our identities are wrong or something that must be hidden. This deeply affects our well-being in every aspect— emotional, mental, and even physical. And the truth is, there’s still no clear answer for how to truly change these systems and beliefs.
Being Pressured to Come Out — and Always Having to Prove Who We Are
An LBQ+ friend once said: “Straight people don’t have to sit down and plan how to tell their parents who they love. They don’t have to gather their courage just to say, ‘I like women,’ or ‘I like both men and women.’” She asked, “When will the day come when we don’t have to keep explaining who we are, and what that means, and why we’re like this to everyone around us?” Because it’s exhausting. It’s heavy having to constantly be questioned, judged, or expected to explain yourself just for being who you are.
Every time we come out, there can be both positive and negative consequences. People may start seeing us differently. Their attitudes might change. We’re often left wondering: Will they accept me? This constant uncertainty causes a lot of stress for LBQ+ individuals.
After coming out, many of us feel we have to prove ourselves to be accepted. In our society, acceptance of gender and sexual diversity often comes with conditions. We used to hear things like, “You can be whoever you are, as long as you’re a good person,” or “It’s okay to express yourself — just don’t take it too far.” Messages like these quietly pressure LBQ+ people to constantly manage how we live, to meet other people’s expectations – to be the “good one,” the “smart one,” the “successful one” — because just being who we are often doesn’t feel like it’s enough.
Being Labeled for Who We Are
Building on the previous point, society still expects our gender and sexuality to be fixed. If you once dated a woman, then later date a man — or if you married a man and then fall in love with a woman — you’re likely to be questioned: So which do you really like?
There’s still a widespread belief that sexual orientation shouldn’t shift or change—that it can’t be fluid. Because of this, many LBQ+ people feel pressure to pick a label and stick with it. This can lead many LBQ+ people into a cycle of questioning ourselves, worrying we don’t fully belong to any one label, or fearing we’re not “queer enough” if we don’t fit a fixed identity. Some even stop themselves from exploring their true selves — just to avoid being judged. In the end, this pressure makes it harder for LBQ+ people to be who they are, to explore freely, and to express their identity in a way that feels right to them. Labelling identities often takes away the space for people to change, grow, or simply do what feels right for them.
Leaving Home for the City—Because We Had No Choice
For LBQ+ people living in small towns or rural areas, especially in more closed or conservative communities, it is often harder to be understood or accepted by those around them. Compared to urban areas, where people tend to live more independently, rural or tight-knit communities often hold stronger expectations about how one should live. This makes it hard, and sometimes unsafe, for us to come out or express one’s identity. Because of that, some are left with little choice but to leave their hometowns and move to bigger cities, in search of a place where they can live more freely.
Leaving home also means losing your original support system. Living in the city also comes with higher expenses, which can lead to financial stress, a lower quality of life, and even safety concerns. And if circumstances force someone to move back home, it takes a lot of effort to adjust and fit in again. For many LBQ+ people, it feels like they are always negotiating: either live as your true self but have to leave home — or stay home, but not really be yourself.
Media and Stereotypes
In earlier times, books, novels, and movies ended in tragedy for female characters who were tomboyish or emotionally close to other women. Many stories forced these women to end up with male protagonists. This created a widespread belief that being LBQ+ was just a phase — and that people like us could never have happy endings. These portrayals created fear. We started to believe that being true to ourselves, or living the life we really wanted, would only bring pain and rejection.
Today, even though Thai society is becoming more open to gender and sexual diversity, the way LBQ+ people are portrayed in the media is still full of harmful stereotypes. For example, tomboy characters are often shown as either a comic relief or as aggressive and violent characters. But in reality, toms are one of the groups most at risk of harassment and violence. These portrayals do not build understanding — they only reinforce prejudice, making it harder and less safe for LBQ+ people to live openly.
The way LBQ+ people are portrayed in the media often doesn’t reflect our real lives. We don’t always look glamorous or hypersexual, like the characters shown on screen. Our real relationships — things that matter deeply to many lesbians — are rarely shown. Instead, the focus is often placed on sex. Our relationships are reduced to something playful, fleeting, or for male entertainment. These distorted portrayals shape harmful beliefs and can even encourage sexual harassment and violence toward LBQ+ people.
What’s also missing is media that educates, supports, and affirms our existence. We rarely see content that helps others understand who we are — or that helps us understand ourselves, our bodies, our emotions, or our relationships. Even basic representation of happy or successful lesbian lives, or just ordinary same-sex female couples, are seldom shown in mainstream media. Without these examples, many of us grow up without any roadmap. Sometimes, it’s hard to even picture what a full, possible life as an LBQ+ person could even look like.
Structural Inequalities: From Welfare Systems to Access to Knowledge
Beyond social and cultural barriers, Thailand’s welfare system is not designed to support single people or those who live outside the traditional male-female family model. Many families are concerned that if their daughters don’t have a male partner or children, they won’t have anyone to rely on as they grow older. That worry often turns into pressure — especially on women — to marry and have children, whether they want to or not.
Health and access to sexual education are also major concerns. It’s still very hard to find information on safe sex for women who love women. For example, finger condoms — which can help prevent STIs — are considered “sex toys” under the law and are illegal, while male condoms are sold everywhere. This shows how the system still doesn’t truly support sexual and gender diversity.
On top of that, the impact of discrimination and lack of resources—combined with the absence of support systems from both family and the state—had led many LBQ+ people face economic hardship and financial insecurity. This is especially true for those working in social justice and LBQ+ rights movements, where compensation is often low, offer no benefits, and rely on short-term or unstable funding. This leads to financial insecurity, which weakens our ability to handle pressure from families or society. Over time, the stress worsens our mental and physical health.
LBQ+ and Creating Our Own Spaces
The stories and challenges shared in this LBQ+ forum came from the real lives of participants. We spoke, we listened, we bore witness to each other’s experiences, and we co-created knowledge rooted in our lived realities and collective wisdom. In the midst of all these challenges, we continue to stand strong in being who we are—even if we haven’t yet found all the answers.
Our lives are shaped by overlapping factors — family roles, income, geography — that make each person’s experience unique. While we may all be pushed into narrow gender roles, other barriers — like religious beliefs, economic pressure, or where we live — affect us differently. Some might say things are getting better, that discrimination has lessened. But for others, it remains intense and isolating. That’s why it’s vital for our communities to understand and support one another in meaningful ways.
It hit us with a quiet sting at the end of our discussion when some of the older participants looked at each other and asked: “Has it really been more than ten years — and we’re still dealing with the same problems?” Even though marriage equality has been passed into law, changing people’s mindsets is something that still takes time—and continued work.
The exchange of stories and experiences in the forum—is a starting point. A beginning of creating a space where what has long been hidden can finally be spoken. We built a network of understanding, and a shared hope to push for real change — in society and in policy — so we might one day live freely, in comfort and in our full selves.
Moreover, having a space to share, listen, and speak made me realise I’m not alone. There are others going through the same things I am. Over those three days and two nights, we spent time together before returning to our homes — back to our lives and the burdens we each carry.
If you ask what has changed, I’d say I no longer feel so alone. There is hope. There are friends. There is a community that understands. Being a lesbian in a rural area no longer feels like something I have to face on my own.
I took what I gained from the forum and brought it back with me — to apply in my own work and with my community. I’m slowly figuring out how to make things better for us, starting with awareness: seeing, naming, and understanding the barriers that I — and others — are facing. And at the very least, I know now that we’re not facing them alone.
Read the Thai language article at Backyard Politics’ website.
Writer (Thai original language): Wannida Arthitpong
Illustrator: Waewvisa Na Songkhla
English Translator: Chayanit Itthipongmaetee
English Editor: Bhasrah Boonyarithi
Thai and English Editor: Sattara Hattirat
Backyard Politics is an LBQ-led feminist organization committed to building a feminist movement where joy is possible—where our anger and sorrow are valid, and our wellbeing, inspiration, and collective care form the foundation of how we grow together.
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