Unmoored Vessel

I created this blog because I’m preparing to leave the United States. Not in a dramatic way, not “running away.” Just in the quiet, determined way you do when you’ve spent years navigating systems that were never built for you.

I wanted a place to write about disability, immigration, bureaucracy, grief, rebuilding, and the strange mix of fear and relief that comes with starting over somewhere else. I don’t plan to share personal details, but I do plan to share the process: the paperwork, the emotions, the losses, the small wins, the things I wish I’d known sooner.

There’s a particular kind of heaviness that comes from preparing for a major life change mostly on your own. The practical reality of being the only person who can push things forward. Every task, every decision, every moment of doubt lands on my shoulders because there’s no one else here to share the weight.

Some days I move through it with stubborn clarity. I know what I’m working toward. I know why I’m doing this. I can feel the future I’m trying to build, and it keeps me going.

Other days, the loneliness of it hits harder. Not the emotional loneliness of being unloved; because I have love in my life. There's this lyric from the song Cinnamon by Hayley Williams: "I'm not lonely/I am free." I resonate with that so much. This isn't that. It's the logistical loneliness of being unassisted. The kind where I'm sorting paperwork at 8 pm on a Friday night because there’s no one to help. I'm making decisions without anyone to talk them through with, because I've tried and nobody truly understands; either they haven't gone through it themselves, or they're upset that I'm leaving. And honestly, I don't know how many people who are as disabled as I am have even attempted something like this without the support of family (which is not an option for me). I'm exhausted and still have to keep going, because if I don’t, nothing happens.

It’s strange to hold both truths at once: that I’m overwhelmed, and that I’m capable. That I’m tired, and that I’m determined. That I wish I had support, and that I’m still moving forward without it.

This is the resilience of showing up for my own life even when I'm the only one in the room.

Lately it feels like every part of preparing for this move comes with friction. Nothing is simple. Nothing is straightforward. Every form, every call, every decision has a dozen steps behind it, and each one takes more out of me than I expect.

Doing all of this while chronically ill is its own kind of maze. I keep running into the limits of my body — not dramatically, just constantly. Fatigue that hits like a wall. Pain that reshapes the day. The way even “small” tasks can take hours because I have to pace myself, rest, restart, try again. How often I end up falling asleep long before the day is over.

And then there’s the little voice of doubt that whispers, “Maybe this is too hard. Maybe it’s safer to stay here.”

But the truth is, it isn’t safer. Staying would be the bigger risk. This move is one huge leap — a new country I’ve never lived in, a whole life I have to build from scratch — but once I’m there, my risk level drops. Especially because one of my biggest fears and expenses, access to affordable, high‑quality healthcare, will finally be stable.

In the U.S., I lose that access more every year, and my body pays the price. My sanity suffers as I think about the future and how much worse it will get.