Across the United States, heartbreaking decisions are being made by families living in mixed-status relationships. As immigration enforcement has intensified, a difficult question has been faced: remain in the U.S. and risk a loved one being detained by ICE, live apart indefinitely, or begin again together in Mexico.

Increasingly, with partners who were in the country illegally, some American women choose to move to Mexico rather than live under constant fear.

For Lois Muñoz, that choice was made earlier this year. Originally from Brooklyn, she has been living for three months in her husband Alfredo’s family compound in Puebla. The busy life she once led as a waitress in Middletown, New York — surrounded by regular customers and daily conversation — has been replaced by quieter days, limited Spanish and no car.

“I lost everything,” she said during a video call. Holiday decorations collected over years were left behind. Familiar routines disappeared. “But it’s OK,” she added. “My husband’s going to be safe.”

Safety was prioritized after years of uncertainty. Alfredo first entered the U.S. without authorization in 2003 to earn money for his parents. Because multiple unlawful entries had occurred, legal residency options were permanently barred. After lawyers were consulted and no solution was found, life continued — until fear began to outweigh comfort.

“I worried every time he left the house,” Muñoz said. Construction jobs took him across several states. Stories of detentions circulated constantly. Anxiety became part of daily life.

For Muñoz, relocation to Mexico was viewed as the more stable legal path. Under Mexico’s “Family Unit” provisions, Americans married to Mexican citizens can apply for residency and eventually obtain work permits. The move was permitted. The adjustment, however, has not been easy.

Loneliness has been felt. “Your husband’s there,” she said, “but it’s not like you’ve got a friend.” Even daily tasks — including preparing Friday lunch for her extended Mexican family — have become sources of both pride and intimidation.

North in Mexico City, a similar transition has been navigated by Haley Pulver, 34. After her partner, Oscar Enríquez, received a removal order, the couple decided that departure would be less traumatic than detention.

Plans were made in case he was stopped by immigration authorities. Stress built steadily. Eventually, a car was sold, furniture was packed, and a job in television production was left behind. Pulver’s life was compressed into two suitcases and a large box before it was relocated south.

“It was very difficult at first,” she said. It was the first time she had lived outside the United States.

A home purchased by Enríquez with U.S. earnings has become their new base. Limited Spanish skills and cultural adjustments have required patience. Still, hope has been expressed that a new rhythm will be found.

“I’m rediscovering Mexico City,” Enríquez said. “And I’m rediscovering it with her.”

Not all couples have been able to remain together physically.

Melissa Byrd, in South Carolina, has been living apart from her partner of nearly 20 years, Jesus Jimenez Meza, who now resides in Veracruz. After a dismissed contract dispute, ICE agents arrived and detention followed. Deportation was carried out shortly after.

“He was the backbone of our family,” Byrd said. Since his return to Mexico, visits have been made when possible, and long-term plans to reunite permanently are being considered.

According to the Department of Homeland Security, millions have self-deported or been removed in recent years. Immigration law continues to bar many individuals who overstayed visas from returning to the U.S. for a decade or more, even when marriages to American citizens exist.

A proposed bipartisan bill, the American Families United Act, would allow immigration judges to weigh family separation when considering relief. For now, however, its progress has stalled.

As enforcement continues, with partners who were in the country illegally, some American women choose to move to Mexico rather than endure prolonged fear or forced separation. The decision is rarely described as easy. Careers are paused. Communities are left behind. Language barriers are confronted. Identities are reshaped.

Yet, for many, peace of mind has been gained.

In Puebla, Muñoz’s world may feel smaller. Her social circle may have narrowed. But one certainty remains.

“My husband’s safe,” she said. “And that’s what matters.”