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Why Is It So Damn Hard for Queer South Asians to Go to Therapy?

Let’s not sugarcoat it—being Queer and South Asian is a full-time job. And not the kind that comes with paid holidays and a HR department. It’s a job that demands emotional acrobatics, 24/7 code-switching, boundary-setting with a side of guilt, and endless internal negotiations between culture, family, survival, and selfhood. Throw therapy into that mix? Now we’re really asking for the impossible.


But let’s talk about it. Because therapy should be a space for healing, especially for Queer South Asians. And yet, it often ends up being yet another thing we can’t fully access. Not because we don’t want it, but because everything—from culture to community to the therapy system itself—makes it feel out of reach.


Queer South Asian and therapy, Queer BIPOC, LGBTQ+

Homophobia at Home, Racism Outside

Let’s start with the obvious. Queer South Asians are not just battling homophobia in the wider world; we’re also trying to survive it in our homes. Being Queer in many South Asian households isn’t just a “lifestyle choice”—it’s treated as a personal betrayal, a moral failure, a Western infection, or worse, a shameful secret.


So when we walk out into the world looking for community, what do we find? Sometimes, racism from white Queer spaces that tokenize us, fetishise us, or exclude us completely. Sometimes, it’s racism from within our own South Asian circles—because yes, internalised colonialism is alive and well. And if you're Muslim and Queer? Buckle up, because now you’re not just dealing with homophobia and racism—you’re also dealing with Islamophobia.


Islamophobia isn’t always screaming hate or violence; often, it’s subtle. It’s conflating all Muslims with extremism. It’s assuming Queer Muslims don’t exist—or worse, shouldn’texist. It’s demanding we “choose” between our faith and our sexuality, as though holding both identities is somehow an error in the system. And this pressure isn’t just external—it can come from within Muslim communities too, making it even harder to navigate.


So yes, therapy sounds great on paper. But how do you find a therapist who understands all that? Who sees all of you—your Queerness, your South Asianness, your Muslimness, your trauma, your resilience—and doesn’t just respond with blank stares and vague affirmations?


Western Beauty Standards and the Battle with the Mirror

Here’s another layer: we live in a world that worships white, thin, hairless bodies. And most of us don’t fit that mould. Personally, I think South Asian beauty is stunning—but growing up in a Western context often teaches us otherwise. The internalised shame around our skin, our features, our hair, our accents—it all adds up. And when we don’t see ourselves reflected in media, in dating apps, in leadership roles—it’s easy to start believing we’re “less than.”


And therapy, again, is supposed to help us unlearn this crap. But what happens when your therapist doesn’t get why being the only brown body in a room feels like a thing? What happens when you have to explain why being called “exotic” is not a compliment, or why being left-swiped for your ethnicity hurts?


This is why finding a Queer South Asian therapist—someone who gets it without you having to spell it out—is so important. Because therapy isn’t just about talking; it’s about being seen.


Therapy: The Dirty Little Secret

Let’s not pretend therapy has a great reputation in South Asian households. For many of us, therapy is something “those people” do. It’s whispered about. It’s shameful. It’s indulgent. It’s a Western thing. And if you are in therapy? God forbid your parents find out.


Remember that scene in Dear Zindagi? Alia Bhatt’s character breaks down in front of her family and admits she’s in therapy, and the whole room goes awkward-silent. That scene wasn’t fictional for many of us—it was relatable content. Telling our parents we’re in therapy often makes them feel like failures. And then we feel guilty for making them feel bad, which makes us feel worse. It’s a spiral.


So we stay quiet. We carry our anxiety and trauma and pain in secret. And when we finally do go to therapy, we go quietly, often without family support, always looking over our shoulder.



It’s a lot. And it’s not something every therapist can help you with. Because if your therapist has never had their identity reduced to a stereotype or been told they’re “hot for an Indian guy,” how can they really understand what that does to your self-esteem? Again: the need for a Queer South Asian therapist becomes glaringly obvious.


Finding the Right Therapist? It’s Like Finding a Needle in a Haystack. In the Dark. Blindfolded.

Let’s be real—finding a good therapist is hard. Finding one who gets what it means to be Queer andSouth Asian? That’s Olympic-level difficulty.


Many therapists mean well. But meaning well doesn’t always cut it. Some miss the mark entirely because they haven’t had to navigate multiple cultures, identities, and languages. They haven’t had to edit themselves at family dinners or dodge questions about marriage or translate their lives across three cultural operating systems. They just… don’t know what it’s like.


That’s why therapist matching matters. Not every South Asian therapist is Queer-affirming. And not every Queer therapist understands what it means to be brown. You need someone who gets the intersection—a Queer South Asian therapist who understands that culture, identity, and trauma are deeply intertwined. Who won’t ask you to pick between your culture and your mental health. Who knows that code-switching, diaspora dynamics, dating while brown and Queer, and faith-based trauma are all part of the same tangled web.


Because when your therapist gets it? The healing hits different.


So What Do We Do?

We talk about it.

We name the challenges.

We create spaces—like this blog—where we say quiet part out loud.  That therapy is hard to access, that being Queer and South Asian is exhausting, that we need therapists who understand us fully.


We push for better therapist training that includes intersectional realities, diaspora dynamics, and Queer of Colour experiences.


We support platforms that centre Queer South Asian therapists, that offer therapist matching based on lived experience, not just degrees on a wall.


And most of all, we keep showing up for ourselves.


Final Thoughts

If you’re Queer and South Asian and you’ve been thinking about therapy—know this: you’re not weak for needing help. You’re not alone for feeling overwhelmed. And you’re not “too much” for wanting someone who understands every complicated, beautiful, contradictory part of you. 


So don’t give up on therapy. But do be picky. Look for that Queer South Asian therapist who gets it.


You deserve therapy where you don’t have to be the educator. Where you're not forced to translate your pain into bite-sized lessons about culture, Queerness, racism, religion, or family expectations. It’s exhausting enough just being you—you shouldn't have to teach someone how to hold space for all that.


And yes, maybe we won’t always find the perfect therapist who ticks every single box. But come on—we can at least ask for it. Because if you don’t ask, you don’t get. And actually? I say we stop politely asking.

We demand it.

We demand it from our health services.We demand it from our institutions.We demand it from every space that claims to care about our wellbeing.

We deserve therapy that honours all of who we are. Full stop.


Saquib Ahmad


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