Planning Exit Routes Instead of Futures

I was listening to a podcast when they proclaimed "40% of young women would leave the United States if given the opportunity." Now, I know that statistic is wrong—not because the feeling behind it is absurd, but I understand how easily numbers like that can be skewed, oversimplified, or stripped of context. However, I really didn’t even bat an eye at how large that percentage was based on the conversations I have in my own life. Things are bad here. You’re not over-exaggerating. This is what’s happening. That number didn’t shock me because it matches the emotional data I’m surrounded by every day.

I hear it in whispered conversations between friends. I see it in group chats where people half-joke about learning another language “just in case.” I feel it in the way people talk about their bodies, their safety, their futures—with exhaustion instead of optimism. When someone says, “If I could leave, I would,” it’s rarely said dramatically. It’s said flatly. Resigned. Like stating the weather.

This isn’t about hating where you live. It’s about not feeling protected by it.

For many young women—and especially for queer, trans, disabled, neurodivergent, or otherwise marginalized people—the question isn’t “Do I love my country?” It’s “Does my country love me back enough to keep me safe?” And increasingly, the answer feels like no.

When healthcare becomes political instead of practical, when bodily autonomy is treated as a debate instead of a right, when survival requires constant vigilance—people don’t fantasize about leaving because it’s trendy. They imagine leaving because imagining staying feels heavier.

There’s also something important embedded in that statistic that numbers can’t show: the grief.

Most people who talk about leaving aren’t eager. They’re heartbroken. They’re attached to their communities, their land, their families, their history. Wanting an exit isn’t a rejection of home—it’s a signal that home no longer feels livable. That distinction matters.

And yes, statistics demand scrutiny. Percentages need methodology. Surveys need context. But dismissing the sentiment because the math might be flawed misses the point entirely. Even if the real number were 25%, or 15%, or 8%—that is still millions of people quietly imagining an escape hatch from their own country.

That should alarm us.

Because when people start planning exits instead of futures, when hope turns into contingency plans, when “someday” shifts from building to leaving—that’s not exaggeration. That’s a population responding rationally to sustained instability and fear.

So no, I don’t accept the statistic at face value. But I absolutely accept the reality underneath it.

And if you’ve been feeling this way—if you’ve wondered whether you’re being dramatic, sensitive, or ungrateful—you’re not. You’re paying attention. You’re responding to what’s in front of you. And you’re far from alone.

This blog post was created with the assistance of AI.