This is not your typical steamy summer romance (although trust me, I have tried). My story is more of a love letter. A love letter not to a person, but to a place. This place. Vancouver.And it’s a story that spans almost two decades, from my first visit as a first grader to my moving here just last summer. If you have watched The Summer I Turned Pretty, this is kind of like that. But queer. And hopefully, with better writing. Do it for the plot, as they say.

Now, I haven’t done this sort of thing since university so I’m a little out of practice. In this essay I will… no, I’m just kidding.

A little bit of context. Like some of you, I am not originally from here. I grew up in Belgium. I went to catholic school, sang in the church choir, etc, etc. I can confirm that the catholic school to queer pipeline is real.
And don’t get me wrong, my love for Vancouver is not the same as dislike for Belgium. I love it there and I’m proud to be from there. I talk about it pretty much all the time. The people I miss, the food, the history, and culture. The fact that Belgium was the second country in the world to legalize same-sex marriage in 2003. And yet it’s a perfect example of how different legislation can feel to daily life.
Because. Growing up there for me also meant growing up with a lot of baggage. I lived and went to school with mostly white, cisgender, straight, conservative people. My home life was a crash course in emotional survival. This and other factors made it feel like I was keeping more and more inside as the years went by. Naturally averse to any type of confrontation, I kept my head down, twisted and bent myself so I wouldn’t cause any waves, trying not to catch any attention. It was a survival strategy, something I wasn’t always aware I was doing, but, over time, it shrinks you.
Now, it’s not like Belgium doesn’t have queer people. Trust me, as someone who got a liberal arts degree, sometimes it feels like I have met most of them. And although I attended university with plenty of rainbow merch and queer friends, sometimes it still felt like I was playing a part. My real, true, queer self was starting to make appearances, before I commuted back home at the end of the day and faded into that washed-out version of myself again. I was learning how to use non-binary pronouns in French and then going home to hear how queer people shouldn’t make such a spectacle of themselves.

Something I have left out until now is that me and my sister were lucky enough to spend many summers here in Vancouver while growing up. Something I definitely did not understand or appreciate while it was happening. Why was I being shipped off to the other side of the world every summer to be with people I hardly knew or understood? Why did I have to leave my home, my friends, my language, and everything that was familiar to me? Weirdly enough, these are some of the most vivid memories I have from my childhood and adolescence. They say you can’t remember an actual emotion, only the memory that feeling left behind. Maybe that is why summers in Vancouver are so bright, painted in colorful emotions, happy, sad, and angry. Because there was a lot of anger. There were a lot of tears. But at times, I was also happy.

I had a lot of firsts here:
This is where, as an angry tween in the middle of summer, I watched my first pride parade. Right on Robson Street. I did not know what was happening; I just remember it being loud and bright and colorful.
When I was a little bit older, Vancouver is where I had first dates, best dates. Most memorably the girl who planned a walking date to visit the best independent bookstores in the downtown area. For someone with a literature degree, that’s about as hot as it gets.
I spontaneously booked a walking tour called “The Really Gay History Tour,” diving into the queer history of this city. And I felt it. A hum, a buzz, whatever you want to call it. Something small, brave, vulnerable sitting in my chest, making its presence known. This place felt good, right.

Deciding to move here was not intentionally something I chose to do for myself. It made sense for a bunch of boring legal reasons and like many, I was a bit adrift after finishing university. What do you mean there isn’t anything I’m working towards over the next 4 years? I made the choice, initially for a year, to be closer to my sister, who had been living here for years. Probably the least problematic relationship I have in my life, the person who I have leaned on (sometimes a little too much) since we were 2 lost kids in this city. It was a risk. Once again, I was leaving my home, my friends, everything I knew, but this time it was my own choice, and it was for longer. But even though I was comfortable there, I was still clenching. I was myself, but I could still feel myself purposely not taking up space at times.

So. Since I recently passed my 1-year anniversary of moving here (or my Vaniversary, as I like to call it), I thought it made sense to do a little performance review.

After many many, many job applications, I started working at what I am convinced is the queerest workplace in the greater Vancouver area. If our queer staff members were given the day off for Pride, there would be no one left to keep the place running. The people I have met there, dare I say the friends I have made there, mean more to my little gay heart than I can express.
I have also joined a queer fitness class (yes, that is a thing, and I could not recommend it more). After a fun night out dancing at The Birdhouse, I woke up the next day not with a hangover, but with a hangover and my lower back in spasm. This queer cardio class, pitched to me as “gay line dancing,” seemed like a smart solution and has led to another first. My first time actively, loudly, proudly participating in a pride event earlier this summer.
It definitely hasn’t always been easy, though. In the past year, I have experienced more than one type of heartbreak here. The distance and space have given me a lot, but they have also taken things from me. Missing out on friends’ important life events, not getting the chance to say a final goodbye. Sometimes I feel like I am living a parallel life. It is so hard to fight the urge to regress into who I used to be when my old life comes knocking.

But. There is one memory that I keep going back to. It was August 2024, right after I moved. I packed my book and towel and biked on one of the crappy Mobi bikes to sit at English Bay Beach. The pride parade was going by. I watched the colours. The sun was shining. I could hear the waves on the beach and felt the wind on my face. This memory is so warm and bright in my mind, because I felt so… peaceful. And even though I had no idea what was coming in the year ahead, I felt I could finally, truly exhale.