Bye-Bye, San Francisco

Before I dive into the details of my time in SF, I want to address the cover. The “unfinished” and “rough” feel of the illustration that looks different from what I usually make. A hybrid of vector, concept, and sketch that’s messy enough to classify as unintentional and detailed enough to be somewhat planned.

Well, that’s pretty much how I feel about any visuals generated by unethically trained AI models. Was it intentional? Was it random? How many prompts did it take? And it’s also how I feel about my life in San Francisco. Was it intentional? For how long? How many times did I try to love it? Why can’t I just love it? WHY?!

Oh-my-my. To close the cover image loop, yes, that one was intentional. It is also honest because I am currently at the point where my hands and brain can’t produce clean visuals to celebrate the city that stole my joy. Yes, it stole my joy and broke my heart. Together with an ever-present excitement about technology and the future it dictates.

(I can be more dramatic than that, if anyone's wondering).

Alright, back to reasons.

Sometimes I wonder if there could be a version of my story where instead of hating this city from the very first sight I could have loved it. Passionately. Like melted cheese loves bread. After all, during my time here, I met many locals who’re deeply nostalgic about the late 1990s-2000s version of SF that I never witnessed. When artistic communities were celebrated, educators were valued, rent prices were digestible, and homelessness wasn’t as bad.

Because of these stories, I understand that this passionate love exists in theory, and that my sad experience of San Francisco is partially due to bad timing: I moved here in 2019, at the peak of pre-AI tech. I also understand that it could have been better if I at least moved here for tech. In that case, I would have embraced the networking, lived in the office, and made my job my entire personality.

(That, or became a dog mom).

But I didn’t move here for tech. I didn't move here for dogs. I moved to San Francisco because I was engaged to my husband who, at that time, landed a new job at a local startup and chose San Francisco because why not try.

(The worst kind of reason to move to San Francisco, if you ask me, but I really love my husband, and for that I’ve no regrets).

And so we tried, together. Unsuccessfully. I won’t lie, I sleep better at night knowing that San Francisco didn't win my husband's heart either. But I also understand that for our demographics and cultural background, this city would have never worked.

Even though I moved here at the time when tech companies were actively commissioning and hiring illustrators (a short-lived period in history, really), my job is not the right job to “succeed” here. Not only because to this day most people who don’t work on design teams have a hard time understanding what it is exactly that I do, but also because my job is way too “human” for local demand.

(Technically, not anymore as local tech leaders scraped numerous creative portfolios and invested billions to outsource my skill to a machine and market it as if anyone can do it).

In short, being an illustrator in San Francisco is mostly a disappointing act. But I persevered. By playing the game of constant networking. Getting signed by an illustration agency that helped me a lot during COVID. Landing a full-time in-house role where I stayed for four years after my son was born. Doing workshops now and then. Freelancing. Never thriving.

So… The never thriving thing is what I haven’t been able to make peace with even though a lot of folks around me seem to be doing just fine. As someone who lived in Russia, France, Switzerland, Italy, Spain, and frequently traveled to other countries, I have never felt this unwelcome in my life. Not just in terms of my skillset, but in terms of my values, too.

Before moving here, I never felt this strong of a push to merge myself with what I do for a living. I was used to discussions with strangers that never mentioned work, occupation and derivatives.

Ah, let's roll back for a second.

I was used to discussions with strangers and never had people run away to walk on the opposite side of a street from me. If I speculated on why, I'd guess my never-ending positivity is aggressively off-putting.

Anyway.

I never struggled to find a job. I never expected to be in a position where I’d have to choose between my job and my child. That I would feel discouraged to mention my child in conversations. That I would feel judged for having him in the first place.

I’ve never been in a place this dystopian and… weird.

As a mechanical engineer, my husband feels the same way. In his case, there’s no shortage of positions, but because the local hardware companies share the same culture with software companies, his experience in San Francisco is quite unusual for his field. When the speed of production becomes the highest priority, and meeting deadlines overshadows risks and safety, doing due diligence becomes hard to impossible.

For my overly responsible husband, this is not the right fit either.

So why did we stay for seven years?

Great question. Many things happened. USCIS taking a long time to process my case. COVID quickly reshaping the world. Russia-Ukraine war that affected my family. Getting married and having a child. Providing for him to the best of our ability. Promotions that came with a price.

We did think about moving out earlier, but there was always something that interfered. In fact, June 2026 is still not the perfect time for us to drop everything and move to the opposite side of California. But the truth is no time is ever perfect. And it never will be. And that's ok.

We can do this move now because in comparison to seven years ago, we're much better equipped with something amazing and empowering.

(AI? Oh, fuck AI).

Age and experience. The versions of ourselves in our mid and late thirties are much more confident and calm. We have different priorities. We don't mind a temporary discomfort. We know why we are doing it, what we are looking for, why this makes sense.

As parents, we want a better environment for our child. The one that celebrates community instead of endorsing individualism. Where he can run around freely without me constantly worrying. Where teachers are better supported and schools aren't facing shut-downs.

Don't get me wrong, I know too well no place is perfect. Even Italy. Can you imagine?

But I also know that places are bubbles, and that some bubbles taste better than others. We don't jam with the San Francisco bubble. We don't connect with the local culture. We are no longer enamored with tech. We are ready to try something else.

And so we're leaving. Because according to Billy, "if that's movin' up then I'm movin' out".