The Decision to Leave
After Trump took office in 2025, and signed a whole slew of executive orders that evening, I found myself in a spiral of depression and anxiety. Watching rights, mine and others, get signed away in an instant is terrifying. I didn’t know how to grapple with any of it.
It took a couple of months, but with the help of friends I was able to get myself back to somewhat stable ground. The country was falling apart, but I wasn’t reacting just off of complete terror.
During that time, I’d spoken a lot with my friend up in Canada, who kept offering me a safe haven if I needed it. I continued watching, as little by little, the cruelty of this Republican administration grew more vicious.
The final straw in my decision happened in March. I read an article that talked about how Homeland Security removed a restriction that prevented them from tracking people solely based on sexual orientation or gender identity. That opened the LGBTQIA+ community to being watched simply because of who we are. That scared me.
That happened the same month the Republican administration sent ICE to snatch a student, who was here legally, off the streets. The student had written an anti-Israel paper in class.
Both of those things were it for me. I took my friend up on her offer, and started making preparations to leave this country, maybe forever.
A lot of people questioned my decision at first. I heard “but we’re US citizens, it won’t get that bad,” a lot. It echoed the sentiments from one of my favorite musicals, Cabaret.
Cabaret is set during the rise of the Nazi party in Germany, and the sexual freedom they experienced prior to their country falling into the hands of Hitler. Throughout the musical, tensions slowly escalated.
The 1st act is very lighthearted and fun, sprinkled with a few sinister, darker hints of what’s to come. The 2nd act turns much darker, as everything begins falling apart around the characters. There was a little old man who was Jewish, who kept saying “nothing will happen to me, I’m German.”
As I watched my country slowly fall apart, I heard that same sentiment echoed by people around me. Nothing will happen to us, we’re US citizens. But if history has taught us anything, it’s that governments can turn on their people and make whoever they want the enemy.
I also kept thinking about the boiling frog metaphor. And I don’t want to become so complacent by the horrors happening here that I boil alive.
I hope I’m wrong. I hope nothing happens. But things keep getting worse, and things are already happening.
People have been sent off to prisons in El Salvador without due process. They’re snatching people off the streets without warrants, without announcing themselves as law enforcement, and covering their faces to hide their identities as they do so.
Just within the last couple of weeks Trump deployed Marines to LA, Trump threatened to arrest a governor, the Republican speaker of the House suggested that same governor should be tarred and feathered, 2 Minnesota Democratic representatives and their spouses were shot in their homes by a MAGA supporter, and the US may be pulled into a war with Iran because we let Israel get away with starting a fight. That’s not to mention that the world has turned a blind eye to the genocide Israel has been committing against Palestine.
It's hard not to feel helpless watching this all unfold. It’s hard watching people suffer with no way to stop it. I can’t tell if we’re being pulled into another civil war, or if we’re about to end up in World War III. Maybe both. Hopefully neither.
The Preparing
I’ve been fortunate enough to have traveled a lot in my life. I’ve been to Alaska and the US Virgin Islands. Outside of the country, I’ve been to England, Scotland, Mexico, Honduras, Canada, France, Italy, and Sint Maarten. I’m familiar with that process, and going through customs.
But on those visits, I was only there for a week or two at most. I always had a home here in the US to come back to.
I have a lot of chronic illnesses, and take medications to manage said illnesses. So one of the first things I needed to check was if I would have access to all of my medications in Canada, and maybe Mexico if I end up there.
I know the US doesn’t have a good healthcare system. But when I compare it to Mexico, our healthcare seems completely laughable.
Getting my medications in both countries seems like it should be fairly easy.
The next step was much harder—moving out of a house I love. My house is a dream. It’s on almost an acre of land. I created a little park in my backyard with nature trails weaving through trees. I use one of the bedrooms as an art studio.
I had plans for the house, when I had enough money. I was going to build a greenhouse, and maybe a pool in the back. I was going to get solar power, and replace the carpet with hardwood floors.
This year I was going to lay landscape fabric down on my trails, and lay more gravel down on top of it.
When I first moved in, I planted a ton of cedar trees around the edge of my property. I love those trees. I even named them all—Mangled, Emmy, Fruity, Spike, Biggy, Junior (Fluffy died from snow, Junior was planted in Fluffy’s place), Airy, Little Guy, 50/50, Eggplant, Achiever, Lydia, Blocker, Lean, Spiny, Wirey, End Cap, Bushy, Bendy, Arrow, Esse, Big, Survivor, Blue, Harry, Taco, Twisty, Wind Blown, and Spiral. And I’d just moved a little baby cedar that was born in my yard next to Spiral, but hadn’t named it yet.
Those cedars are finally getting big enough that they provide almost complete privacy from the school behind me. They’ve grown so big.
When I needed to clear my head, I would go out and walk the paths, or sit on the bench I put back there.
It’s been hard to let it go. I had to let go of all of the dreams and plans I had for the house, and realize that none of that will ever happen. I had to accept I wasn’t meant to stay there forever.
I know I’m not the first person to be in this situation, and I won’t be the last. But it still hurts. I’m still grieving a house I loved.
As of the writing of this article, it’s still up for sale. Maybe, with any luck, I’ll win the lottery, and I can keep it and still flee the country for a while.
If it doesn’t sell, and I don’t win the lottery, I don’t know what I’ll do. I won’t have any money, and I’ll still be paying a mortgage. My current plan is to be out by September.
My house not selling doesn’t make this country any safer. I do run my own art business, but as the economy crashes, it’s been harder to make enough to support myself.
My last day at my historic house job is in a couple of weeks. I’ve been working for the museum for more than half of my life.
Which leads me to the next step of preparing to leave, and the one that is the hardest—saying goodbye to my friends and family.
I have a lot of good friends here. I lead tours at a historic house, and I’m close with a lot of the folks I work with. I own a business teaching people HEMA, or historical European martial arts. We teach people how to use longswords, dussacks, rapiers, spears, etc. I’ve been with them for 11 or so years. I’m friends with all of them too.
My parents are here, my brother, his wife, and their dog Loki are in Philly. I have close friends in northern Virginia. I have very close friends in North Carolina, along with my god kids. We see each other several times a year, and they bring my god kids up several times a year to go to a theme park in the area. My god kids are teenagers now, and I’m scared for them, and the world they’re having to grow up in.
The US has been detaining US citizens returning to the country, especially anyone who has been vocally anti-Trump or pro-Palestine. But they’ve already proven they can make anyone disappear. And I need my medications to survive.
So once I leave, I can’t come back until Trump and this entire Republican administration is out.
I hope one day kindness returns to this country. Or maybe it was never here. Maybe what I hope for is for kindness to be embraced by this country. Either way, for now, I’m having to say goodbye to people I love and wondering if I’ll ever see them again.