The messages tend to arrive first thing in the morning, which tells me my friends are texting before bed.
“Hey. What kind of visa did you apply for? Can we schedule time to chat tomorrow?
“Sure,” I reply. “Nine a.m. your time, 5 p.m. mine?”
After losing nearly everything in the Great Recession–my job and car, our apartment and savings–my future husband and I moved into a converted cargo van and became “economic migrants.” Since then we’ve slowly traveled through 25 countries, supporting ourselves with a small online business selling outdoor recreation equipment. Today we live in a house in Spain with our 12-year-old daughter.
Which is to say I’m used to fielding questions about living abroad. But lately I’ve noticed less whimsy and more urgency on these calls. My friends haven’t had a vacation since before the pandemic. They’re worried about health-care cuts and rising insurance premiums. They’ll never save enough for a down payment, or they mortgaged their home to help their kids through college, but now the kids can’t find jobs.
In other words they’re losing their grip on whatever was left of the American dream.
And they’re not alone. A survey Harris Poll released in 2025 found that about four in 10 Americans have considered emigrating or plan to do so, a concerning data point that is reflected on social media. A quick search turns up countless YouTube channels and TikTok videos of happy-go-lucky transplants sipping cava at tapas bars on cobblestone streets, promising that you, too, can live your best life for 1,000 euros a month. But, of course, the real cost-benefit analysis is much more nuanced. Besides, I know my friends aren’t just asking about the price of eggs or where to get the best paella. They’re asking for empathy and hope, and trust I can give both because for many years I, too, struggled in survival mode.
After moving to Spain in the fall of 2016, my family and I found the American dream. But here’s the rub: We almost didn’t recognize it.
Like most young people of my generation, I was taught that with enough hard work, anyone could bootstrap their way up to a McMansion and an S-Class—except that ’80s version didn’t manifest for me (or millions of others). In Spain what we’ve found instead is a middle-class life where many of the stressors that plague our friends are less of a concern.
The first time I took my daughter to the emergency room, we were visiting family in Los Angeles. It cost over $500 (which I had to charge) to find out that my baby’s pink eyeballs were mercifully just a temporary reaction to refracted UV rays and salt air (i.e., the beach). Five years later, when I took her to the emergency room in Spain for a persistent fever and paid only 70 euros (in cash), I couldn’t stop raving about how cheap it was—until a friend gently informed me I’d overpaid. All children, regardless of citizenship, receive free public health care in Spain, as do residents making social security contributions. Not only would we save thousands of dollars in insurance premiums, I could finally stop putting off routine screenings and worry about an unforeseen health crisis causing financial ruin. I joked that living in Spain would probably add years to my life. My friend nodded. Spain has one of the longest life expectancies in the world.
We’re also less worried about the cost of education. We moved to Spain too late to take advantage of its state subsidized, low-cost day care or free education for kids ages 3 through 6, but our eighth-grade daughter does have college on the horizon. Assuming she chooses to attend in Spain, one estimate places the total cost for a bachelor’s degree at a public university ranges from roughly 2,100 euros to 4,629 euros—which is a fraction of what it costs California residents at my alma mater, University of California, Los Angeles. Like medical debt, student-loan debt is effectively nonexistent in Spain, which means less stress for both me and my husband as we save for retirement, and for our daughter as she becomes a self-supporting adult.
Most unexpected for us, however, has been our experience with housing. When we lost nearly everything in the Great Recession, that included the classic dream of owning a house. Instead, we opted for a nomadic life that we could afford—first in our van in Latin America, then in an RV in the United States, and finally in short-term rentals in Spain. By steering clear of the major cities, we happily settled into furnished apartments that cost anywhere from 500 euros a month for a one-bedroom to 1,000 euros for a three-bedroom—much less than the $1,600-a-month studio we lost in Los Angeles in 2009. But then the pandemic hit, and everything changed. After being locked inside for seven straight weeks, with my husband, daughter, and I having to take turns on the balconet to catch a few minutes of sunshine a day, we suddenly felt an existential need to own a house with green space; with a mortgage, we could make that once-abandoned dream come true in Spain.
That said, there are, of course, trade-offs. For one, if you work for a Spanish company, wages tend to be significantly lower in gross terms compared with the U.S. (When adjusted for the lower cost of essentials, however, the gap in purchasing power narrows. There are also 30 calendar days a year of mandatory paid vacation, a different kind of compensation). Secondly, the effective tax rate in Spain is significantly higher. When we first discovered that we’d pay 10 to 15 percent more in taxes than we did back home, plus lose roughly 10 percent when we converted our paychecks to euros, all I could think was, How will we ever get ahead? I felt defeated. I’d hoped to save money and eventually create generational wealth for our daughter. Now I wasn’t sure if living in Spain was actually worth it.
Months later, however, while enjoying an all-day Saturday barbecue with friends, I realized the calculus is not just about hard numbers. Through the scattering of pine trees, I saw long wooden picnic tables like our own, filled with generations of people sharing food, drinks, and laughter. This festive tableau of Spain has become cliché, but it’s true: When people have balance and their core needs are met, they enjoy more social trust and community. In other words the growth of our retirement portfolio might not outpace what it would have been in the States, but the gift of the real American dream—a high quality of life for all—was sitting right in front of me.
So what do I tell my friends back home now? While some of their worries might be alleviated by living abroad, there is also a longing—and loneliness—that comes with being an immigrant. Silly as it sounds mine is related to the feeling I get watching the Blue Angels. The first time I heard the U.S. Navy’s Flight Demonstration Squadron roar overhead as a kid, I ran outside to watch, giggling with excitement. As the six jets flew in razor-tight formations, I could feel what they stood for: teamwork, excellence, service. They made me proud to be an American. But how will I ever share that feeling of what it means to be an American with my daughter? Despite her U.S. passport she barely tolerates peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
The truth is, my husband and I often dream of returning because even though we’re extremely grateful for the life we live today, we simply miss home. I suspect if my friends move abroad, they’ll feel this way, too.