I-130 Family Immigration Visa Approved: A Psychological Marathon (Part 1)
“Immediate relatives of U.S. citizens—including spouses, unmarried children under 21, and parents—apply via Form I-130.” It sounds as if once you submit your packet, everything falls into place. In reality, after COVID-19 and shifting administration policies, a review that used to take about one year stretched to three. I still remember the lawyer’s panic-stricken tone when announcing, “Spousal applications are backlogged—expect at least a three-year wait.”
Waiting itself isn’t terrifying; it’s the uncertainty. You must find meaningful pursuits, build skills relevant to life in the U.S., and even prepare for the possibility of never getting approved. I ran my business, forced myself to stay optimistic with yoga, and sank into sleepless anxiety by night.
A long-distance marriage feels like distant water unable to quench a nearby fire. Doubts ignite arguments, and each video call at midnight—him in the U.S., me in Taiwan—ended in mutual exhaustion. Yet that tiny screen light never went out.
“Our case is fortunate,” the lawyer reminded us, “marriage-based visas are the simplest route.”
How did we meet? During the pandemic, when everyone adopted pets and sought love online, I found Coffee Meets Bagel refreshingly substantive. Profiles ranged from national investigators to French engineers, Porsche-driving executives, and Fortune 100 foreign executives.
My therapist encouraged me to date again after heartbreak, to experience being valued. Clearly, I cared for myself too well, so he pushed me toward new people.
My husband was the only one who refused any typical dating process. He lived in “the middle of nowhere” in the U.S. and claimed he only contacted matches with real photos. His profile asked for an English-proficient, polite partner interested in indigenous cultures and human rights, fluent in classical and contemporary literature and politics—ideally of mixed heritage.
Yet love changes people. When he saw me on video with a “strawberry” filter, he paused for seconds, then declared everything else immaterial. My resilience—my willingness to endure hardship in America—became my greatest asset.
We video-called daily, often ten hours straight. He tucked me into his “little pocket,” letting me overhear his meetings, lectures, and phone calls. He shared his Google location, sent flowers and cards, and began buying gifts for our future together. Four months later, he flew to Taiwan. My mother and in-laws conspired: one sushi-bar engagement, one hometown wedding. I heard the wedding bells.
We met twice for a month each—like diplomats on state visits. There were friend meetups, health checkups, and shopping for bargains. In total, we spent about one week together in person. Yet our four-month digital courtship and two weeks’ in-person time sealed our lifetime commitment.
I wondered if U.S. Customs would suspect a green-card seeker. But when he proposed as an educator transforming destinies through knowledge—telling me I’d thrive in America—it felt right. He referenced Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher’s journey: she went to France; I would travel Western Europe, then return.
“Absolutely!” he shouted. Then, with sly wit: “A Taiwanese writer living in America—sounds perfect.”
I admit I was vain and still healing. My therapist said choosing someone remote spared me emotional risk. Yet after adopting dogs and finishing orthodontia, my I-130 took an unexpected turn: from document requests, backlogs, and denials to sudden approvals. The AIT interview invitation arrived as if on schedule.
If the visa is granted, I will leave Taiwan for the U.S. within six months.
Looking around at my minimal belongings—no furniture and only a few boxes—
I wonder: Is this relocation an adventure or an escape? It all feels unreal.
