There I was, living my best life in Chicago, a city I loved, with the man I loved, an amazing group of friends, a great job, and a magnificent apartment in a trendy neighborhood that was at least 20% less than market value.
It was 2017. My partner Jaime and I had been living together for about a year when he decided, with input from his Ph.D. advisor at the Illinois Institute of Design, that he should get some work experience in the UX design research field.
Jaime is a Colombian national, so that limited his options — and the competition in Chicago is fierce. (One interviewer actually told him she couldn’t hire him under his student visa status — but would like to give him a hug!) As I held out hope that he would find something local, he began receiving offers from everywhere else: Grand Rapids, Austin, Florida, Seattle. I begged him to accept the job in Mumbai — at least we would be going on an adventure — but he passed, worried about the political climate and possible reentry to the U.S.
My only “hard no” was Dallas, Texas. I’ve always had a thing against Texas. It was almost arbitrary, but the idea of “everything’s bigger in Texas” and “open carry” was more than off-putting.
One day, I got home from work and he was excited to tell me about a great interview and offer he had just received. Where? Richardson, Texas. A suburb of — you guessed it— Dallas.
Suddenly, I had a tough decision. Could I stomach moving to a place I loathed — or would I stay put in my best life, but lose one of the best parts of it?