"I'll Leave If It Gets Bad": The Dangerous Lie That Keeps You Trapped

My government colleagues are quietly seeking asylum. The warning signs they see that most Americans are missing.

Editor’s note: This article is also cross-posted to our other Substack, “Borderless Living.” I’m also sharing it here because the fears it explores — and the decisions it demands — resonate deeply with both The Long Memo and Borderless audiences. If you’ve ever thought, “I’ll leave if it gets bad”… this is for you.

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You don't need another list of countries with tax breaks—or five-step guides for relocating your dog.

(That information is essential; we will cover it all here, don't worry.)

What you need is someone to name the feeling you've been suppressing:

You're scared.

I am, too. Every day, I'm uneasy about all the steps I'm taking.

I read the news, run the calculations, and try to gauge how much sand remains in the hourglass. I assess whether any of my six contingency plans are still viable and what their vulnerabilities might be.

Why This Matters

I haven't planned with this intensity since my days in national security. Because now, as then, lives hang in the balance.

Just days ago, I spoke with a long-time friend and former colleague who had met with a foreign consulate to seek asylum. They fear becoming a target as a former administration official. They're just one of several former government colleagues contemplating the same path.

I couldn't tell them they were wrong, and I felt grateful for having left government service two decades ago.

Readers of my other Substack, The Long Memo, tell me their fears daily, asking how much time they "really have left" to "get out."

"I'm not sure I have enough money." "My kids won't come with me." "How can I leave my elderly relatives behind?"

Your fear is legitimate. I understand it.

And feeling this way doesn't mean you're weak or dramatic.

What you're contemplating—leaving your homeland, uprooting your family, dismantling a life built brick by brick—is seismic.

Existential.

Grief-laden.

You're not just managing logistics. You're wrestling with the fear of making the wrong choice, or waiting too long and losing the choice entirely.

I've been sharing what I consider to be "ground truth" articles about the realities: language barriers, difficulty acclimating, homesick children, frozen assets due to improper transfers, and the soul-crushing experience of starting over.

It's like being a Stranger in a Strange Land—human but profoundly displaced. For those unfamiliar with the reference, Robert A. Heinlein's novel tells the story of Valentine Smith, a human who arrives on Earth as an adult after being born on Mars and raised by Martians. Though human, he's fundamentally alien to Earth.

That's how many of us feel right now—strangers in what should be familiar territory.

I share these fears. These are life-and-death decisions.

These aren't excuses. They're warning signs.

If you recognize them in yourself, you still have time to act. This is partly why I started this Substack—because thinking differently about our world has never been more crucial.

But the first step is confronting these fears head-on. Let's examine them.

The Fear of Being Trapped

This is the foundational fear—terrifying because it's entirely plausible.

I have this fear too.

That I'll want to leave. That I'll need to leave. And I won't be able to.

Maybe you never imagined becoming someone who studies escape routes. Perhaps you expected a predictable life—stable, rooted, ordinary.

And now? You're contemplating something most people won't even voice aloud.

This isn't "going abroad" or "working remotely." This is survival planning.

It's why the fear of being trapped keeps people clinging to every flicker of hope:

"Maybe the Supreme Court will intervene." "Maybe the next election will fix everything." "Maybe this will pass. Maybe it's not as bad as it seems."

Maybe.

But here's what "maybe" really is: a way to soothe our fear while remaining stationary. Truly acknowledging this fear means accepting that you might not get to choose when—or if—you leave.

Governments don't broadcast when they're closing exits. There's no dramatic announcement. No warning klaxon. Just quiet decisions, concealed behind phrases like "national security," "economic stability," or "temporary restrictions."

The legal machinery is already in place:

• Passport revocation laws for tax debt over $62,000

• Executive orders that can freeze bank transfers or prohibit remittances

• Patriot Act provisions allowing indefinite monitoring, blocking, and seizure of "suspicious" funds

• 8 U.S. Code § 1185—making it unlawful to leave the U.S. without presenting a valid U.S. passport

• 8 U.S. Code § 1185(b)—empowering the President to dictate the terms for any citizen's exit or entry

You don't need new legislation to become trapped. You need only a crisis. A system error. A flag on your name. A policy change that happens overnight.

And once it happens? You're no longer arguing about rights. You're confronting a system that doesn't take calls. A frozen wire transfer. A passport "under review." A boarding pass that won't print.

And perhaps worst of all: the voices insisting you're being dramatic. That you're catastrophizing. That you're overreacting.

Until it's too late.

Because being trapped isn't about borders. It's about timing.

Those who escape aren't necessarily the luckiest, the wealthiest, or even the most prepared.

They're simply the ones who moved before the exits narrowed.

History doesn't send alerts. It doesn't tap you on the shoulder.

It just shuts the gate.

And the moment you try to leave, you hear the lock click behind you.

So the real question isn't whether this fear is valid.

It's: Which would you regret more—overreacting, or not reacting in time?

The Fear of Losing Your Money

"What if I move everything and lose it? What if I'm locked out of my accounts? What if I can't access my retirement?"

This fear is quieter than the others. But no less suffocating.

Consider Daniel, with $1.2 million in his brokerage account.

He didn't leave when the courts were compromised. He didn't leave when surveillance expanded. He promised himself he'd go if "anything truly unconstitutional" occurred.

By the time he attempted to wire funds to his Canadian account, the transfer was flagged. Held for "compliance review." Then canceled.

No explanation provided. The compliance team stopped responding. Then the account was frozen "pending investigation."

He never recovered his assets.

Or Monica, with her pension, paid-off house, and $300,000 IRA.

She wanted to leave. She had researched Portugal, then Ireland. But her son urged, "Just wait a year. See what happens." So she waited. During that year, the IRS quietly expanded enforcement on "noncompliant offshore reporting."

She wasn't concealing anything. She simply hadn't filed one of the required disclosure forms. The penalty: $90,000 for attempting to move her retirement savings internationally.

She never left. Not because she couldn't—but because they depleted her resources until it no longer made sense.

The fear is real, but manageable—if confronted early.

This fear doesn't arrive with sirens blaring. It creeps in during ordinary moments.

When checking your banking app. When reviewing your retirement balance. When realizing how much of your life is tied to institutions that don't serve your interests—and may soon work against them.

People reassure themselves that wealth equals options. That if circumstances deteriorate, they can simply use their gold card, buy the ticket, wire the funds, start fresh.

But that's fantasy.

Because in a system turning against its citizens, wealth isn't freedom.

It's leverage.

There's no security in inaccessible assets. No sovereignty in wealth that can be frozen. Your 401(k) doesn't make you untouchable. Your brokerage account isn't a lifeboat.

People stay because they believe money equals security. But in deteriorating systems, wealth becomes a tether.

When governments panic, they don't target the impoverished. They pursue capital in motion. They chase those attempting to leave with resources intact.

You needn't be wealthy to become a target. You simply need to appear to be taking something valuable when you depart.

Yes, restructuring your finances is daunting. Involving lawyers. Learning offshore tax regulations you never wanted to understand.

But the longer you wait, the less control you maintain.

Your assets must be beyond the blast radius before crisis hits.

Otherwise, they're not resources. They're just fuel for someone else's agenda.

The Fear of Being Criminalized or Targeted

"What if I'm labeled unpatriotic? What if they seize my assets? What if they call me a traitor?"

I have colleagues—people I worked alongside in government—who are actively preparing for FBI agents at their door. They anticipate charges of espionage, sedition, or treason.

Not for breaking laws. For speaking out. For writing articles, giving interviews, and criticizing the President—not as outsiders, but as insiders. Witnesses. Professionals who served their country and couldn't remain silent.

As you've likely heard, there are lists. Trump has one. Kash Patel has one. Others undoubtedly exist.

The rule of law is no longer reliable. It's a coin toss. Six justices can determine whether you're imprisoned. Or perhaps sent to CECOT.

So no—this isn't paranoia. It's historical pattern recognition.

Take Alex, who worked at DHS. In policy, not operations. But during Trump's final year in office, he began documenting what he witnessed. For personal records only. He didn't publish or leak it. But a colleague discovered the draft and reported it—not from loyalty, but fear.

Alex was removed from his projects. Lost access to certain files. Was quietly reassigned, then placed on "administrative hold." His clearance wasn't revoked—but remained "under review." He was instructed not to travel internationally without prior approval.

He faced no formal charges. But he was marked. He understood the message.

Authoritarian regimes don't need mass incarceration. They need only make examples of a few. They generate fear by punishing early dissent—and letting silence do the rest.

Loyalty oaths. Ideological screening. Accusations of sedition. All it requires is a headline and a scapegoat. All it takes is being right too soon—before the country can acknowledge the truth.

That's why I don't simply tell people to flee. That's why I say: Leave for opportunity. Don't wait to escape in fear.

Some may eventually need asylum. Some may have legitimate persecution claims.

But most won't. They'll wait. They'll delay. They'll hope they're not on any list.

And by the time they discover the truth, they'll be too close to the precipice.

You needn't be charged to be ruined. You needn't be guilty to be targeted. The system doesn't have to take everyone. It just has to take enough.

Enough to make you think: "Not me. Not yet. Not this time."

The Fear of Abandoning Your Loved Ones

"What if my partner refuses to leave? What if my children beg to stay? What if they constantly ask to go home?"

This is where fear becomes visceral. Because it's no longer abstract. It's deeply personal.

Leaving a job, a neighborhood, or even a country is one thing. Leaving people behind—or bringing them unwillingly and watching them suffer—is entirely different.

I've read too many heartbreaking accounts.

Children crying in foreign bedrooms, asking when they can go home. Spouses who agreed to relocate but never emotionally adjusted. People who thought moving would offer a fresh start—only to discover it exposed wounds they weren't prepared to face.

Because this isn't like moving cross-country. It's not a sabbatical or an extended vacation. This is reinvention. And it's painful.

And if you're the one leading everyone to safety, you bear double the grief: your own... and theirs.

Most people won't abandon their partners. They won't leave their children, parents, or even pets behind. They will remain—even knowing they shouldn't—because the alternative feels like betrayal.

Let's acknowledge the truth:

You probably won't leave your family.

That's why this fear weighs so heavily. Because you're deciding not just for yourself, but for everyone you love. That pressure can paralyze you before you even begin.

But here's another truth: staying won't protect them either.

Staying may only postpone the inevitable—or worsen it. Because the longer you wait, the fewer options they'll have. And when systems collapse, children don't comprehend geopolitics. They only know that Mom or Dad failed to protect them.

That's why acting while you still have choices is critical.

So what can you do?

Start difficult conversations now—not later. Don't force anyone. Plant seeds. Discuss possibilities before discussing exits. Look for transitional approaches: Extended stays. Long vacations. Business visas.

Give your loved ones space to arrive emotionally before they must arrive physically. They need to reach the same conclusions independently; you can't force perspective shifts. You can't forcibly change someone's identity, which is what permanent relocation ultimately requires.

So give them space, and yourself too, but initiate these conversations.

Because the only thing worse than leaving too early... Is staying long enough to wish you hadn't.

The Fear of Making the Wrong Choice

"What if I sacrifice everything and nothing happens? What if I destroy my life unnecessarily?"

The exile's dilemma.

You fear looking foolish. Ruining everything. Losing your business, home, friendships, reputation—for a threat that never fully materializes.

But consider this truth:

No one who left early and found safety ever says, 'I wish I'd waited longer.'

Only those who waited too long say that. Those who misjudged the timeline. Who thought they had more time.

The Ultimate Fear: Being Too Late

"What if I can't get out in time?"

This is the fear beneath all others. The one that keeps you awake at night.

Because you're not just trying to protect assets. You're racing against an invisible clock.

You're trying to outpace a political event. A court ruling. A decree. A moment when the rules change and the exits vanish.

That moment arrives without announcement. Without media coverage. It comes silently.

And you don't realize you've missed it until you're already trapped.

Here's the reality: The Door Doesn't Slam. It Seals.

Most people freeze not from ignorance but from overwhelm.

Because they're trying to navigate fear, grief, logistics, bureaucracy, relationships, children, finances, memories, and identity—simultaneously.

While learning a new language. In an unfamiliar culture. While pretending they still believe in the system they're attempting to escape.

Leaving isn't easy. Reinvention never is.

But you don't need perfection. You need timeliness.

The door doesn't slam shut. It seals gradually. Silently. Without warning.

And by the time you realize it's closed, you won't be reading essays like this.

You'll be wishing you had.

What Comes Next

If this feels overwhelming, it’s because it is.

But that doesn’t make it unmanageable.

You’re not crazy. You’re not alone. You’re early.

This post isn’t the end of the conversation — it’s the beginning. I made it a free post because I think these fears are important. There are other fears, like, “How am I going to learn the language?” Or, “How am I going to make friends?”

Honestly, those fears are better fears to have. I know that sounds strange, but if those are the fears you have, then your fears are about making it work, versus taking action.

I have all those fears as well.

We’re producing these guides (like how to move your assets, open bank accounts, get second citizenship), and building a network of experts, to help reduce the anxiety behind these things. Knowledge is power, but knowledge also gives you agency. That agency will reduce your anxiety.

But most of all, Borderless Living is to provide a community. A community for all those trying to figure it out, together.

You don’t need to have all the answers today.

But you do need to start.

We’re going to walk this road step by step — not out of fear, but out of readiness, a desire to seize opportunity, and a desire to be free.

Because once the door seals, you don’t get another chance to open it.

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