Margot stood in the lobby of the US consulate in Ghent, Belgium, staring at the portraits on the wall. She had traveled there because her hometown of London had a waiting list stretching beyond 14 months to renounce citizenship. Sydney and major Canadian cities faced similar backlogs. Most European cities were quoting six-month waits.
The consulate walls displayed a picture of Boston Harbour, where she was born, alongside the faces of current US leaders. She felt trapped between everything she loved and everything she despised about her country. Then she walked in, swore an oath, and formally severed her ties to the United States.
The ritual itself takes minutes. Questions are read from a laminated card. The oath is perfunctory. Your passport is retained and later returned with holes punched through it.
What's driving this surge is a dramatic shift in the numbers. In the 2000s, renunciations numbered in the hundreds annually. Since 2014, they've climbed into the thousands. This year is expected to match 2020's record of more than 6,000 departures, partly because the government's fee was recently cut from $2,350 to $450 following a legal battle.
But that official fee masks the true cost. A lawyer handling the process, even without complications, charges $7,000 to $10,000, according to Alexander Marino, who leads Moody's, the world's largest renunciation law practice. Many people who want out can't afford it.
The reasons Americans cite for leaving are visceral and political. Mary, 73, had lived in Canada since 1987 and held dual citizenship without thinking twice about renouncing. The 2016 election night changed everything. She remembers falling asleep after too much vodka, then waking at 2am to see Trump's victory plastered across her neighbor's enormous screen. That moment crystallized her desire to cut ties completely.
Paul, 55, living in Helsinki, traveled to Milan for his consulate appointment on his 51st birthday. He'd made the decision five minutes after seeing a photograph from Amy Coney Barrett's Supreme Court swearing-in ceremony at the end of 2020. The image of her zealous expression paired with what he saw as Trump's smirk of triumph sent him straight to Google to find a renunciation lawyer.
Joseph, 36, in Norway, was blunt about his motivation. "I don't want to be a citizen of a dictatorship," he said. He doubted the government would yield power peacefully after the next presidential election and saw no reason to remain tied to what he viewed as a failing democracy.
Ella, 66, had wanted to renounce for a decade before finally doing so in 2021. Her husband had stopped her earlier, having experienced life in a country where citizens couldn't leave. He wanted America as a potential refuge. Now, Ella sees little chance of that stability and greater odds that the US would destabilize Europe instead.
Almost everyone interviewed for accounts of renunciation asked for name changes. The decision carries real risks. The US government can reject a renunciation outright in rare cases, but more commonly, people become "covered expatriates," a tax classification that brings permanent financial consequences. These individuals face potential denial of re-entry to the US and border questioning. If family members remain in America and are too ill to travel, some expatriates accept they'll never see them again.
There's also a psychological toll from the federal government's quarterly publication of a renunciation register online. Serving no legal purpose, it functions as a public list of those who've abandoned citizenship. Some call it the "name-and-shame game." Few trust the US wouldn't eventually weaponize it despite current legal protections.
One rarely discussed driver gaining attention is legislation taking effect in December that makes military draft registration automatic for US citizens. The Selective Service System creates a database of 18 to 25-year-olds who could be conscripted in wartime. American parents raising children in Europe who read about potential conflicts with Iran or Greenland are increasingly anxious. Sinclair, 54, recently renounced after living in Australia since age 22. His daughter just turned 17. "You can't renounce citizenship on behalf of your child," he noted.
The broader tax picture explains much of the legal industry's involvement. The US is only one of two countries, alongside Eritrea, that taxes citizens on worldwide income regardless of where they live. This creates absurd scenarios. Ella, a research scientist, turned down a lucrative job offer in Switzerland because no Swiss bank would open an account for a US citizen. Another detail: if a US citizen abroad divorces a non-citizen spouse and they split assets, the American pays tax on the ex's portion. The Foreign Account Tax Compliance Act forces foreign banks to identify and report their US clients, giving Washington enforcement power no other nation wields.
The renunciation process itself varies wildly. Some consulates feel perfunctory and bureaucratic. Others carry undercurrents of contempt. Sinclair described his vice consul as "snippy," with an air suggesting he was an idiot for walking away. Michael, 57, was struck by the Amsterdam consulate's shabby chaos, describing it as "the feeling of instantly being back in America."
Yet Joseph faces a genuine dilemma that illustrates the complexity. He works in data science for a company contracting with the Norwegian government. If he were Iranian, his security clearance would be revoked as a presumed risk. When Trump threatens invasions of Greenland, Joseph worries about his job if the US and Norway end up on opposing sides. He also served in the US military for a decade after joining in 2011 to pay for college, and he believed American intentions in Afghanistan were at least honorable. He doesn't believe that about other regions.
He hasn't told his parents he's considering renouncing. His father likely won't mind. His mother is a hard-right Christian nationalist who would see it as political betrayal. Joseph is also politically active and fears that renouncing signals surrender, that giving up citizenship means abandoning any power to push for change from within.
Yet among those who've actually completed the renunciation, regret is nearly absent. Michael expressed "existential regret" about not growing up in a country he could believe in. He misses American landscapes, certain foods, even a Midwest chain restaurant. "But if I never see America again," he said, "I am absolutely fine with that."
Author James Rodriguez: "These aren't tax dodgers or thrill-seekers, they're people who genuinely believe the country has become something they can no longer call home."
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