Before I begin this post, I want to say that the friends I speak of in this piece did nothing wrong. I am, in no way, upset with them. However, the conversation about leaving the country has left me with a sense of grief. This piece relates to my previous post about crip time and grieving the loss of something.
I was five the first time I heard The Beatles speak with their Liverpudlian accents. I was amazed by the idea that there was life beyond my state, where people spoke differently.
That’s when my curiosity about the world and my dream of moving to another place beyond Wisconsin started. But when I asked my parents if I could go see another place, it seemed to me like getting outside of Wisconsin was a reality reserved for other people; I wasn’t special enough. Yet I was determined to keep dreaming of living out of state. That seemed doable someday. Realistic.
I eventually moved to California, but that didn’t cure my wanderlust. I saw people moving to Europe and thought, Maybe I could too.
But then I discovered that, as a woman with a disability, moving out of the country was virtually impossible. Many countries have strict medical requirements for immigration, and their governments see disability as a financial liability, a drain on their healthcare systems. This makes me angry, sad, and disappointed.
A few of my friends are moving to other countries. Their reasons may not be solely based on politics, but current US affairs helped them to leave.
When I was listening to their discussions, I was very happy that they could leave and were doing so to improve their and their families’ quality of life. But it also made me sad—sad because they were leaving and sad because there is no way I can join them.
This was a stark reminder of a privilege I’ll never have.
As a disabled person, the idea of simply packing up and moving to another country is laughable. It’s not a matter of finding the right visa or saving enough money. For me, it’s the harsh reality of immigration policies.
My friends talked about the excitement of it all—the fresh start, the new adventures. They didn’t mean to offend me, but their words felt like a punch in the gut. They didn’t see the invisible wall that slams shut when I think about leaving. They don’t have to consider, for example, if their new country will even allow them or their kids in based on their health status.
I share this not for pity, but for understanding. The next time you hear someone excitedly planning an international move, remember that for some, it’s not an option. It’s a closed door for reasons beyond time, money, and practicality.
And if you care about understanding the place where ableism and disability intersect, perhaps, ask yourself, What invisible walls exist for others?
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