When my boyfriend asked if I would move with him from London to Washington DC in December 2017, I said yes right away. He had been offered a job there and I would need a spousal visa to join him, so we decided to get married. It felt like an adventure. We were young, child-free and had no real responsibilities. I was a freelance journalist and could plausibly work from anywhere, so why not Washington? Why not somewhere new?
I didn’t realise until we arrived, but the terms of my visa meant I wasn’t allowed to do paid work until I acquired the proper permit, which would take months. In the meantime, I was in limbo. At first, it felt like an extended holiday. But about six weeks in, the implications hit home. I accompanied my husband, who was a foreign correspondent, to a work-related drinks event at a bar near Capitol Hill, where everyone other than me seemed to have an impressive job title.
