I am Elon Musk, and today I want to share a truth that will likely cause shock: I have made the decision to move my entire family out of the United States of America.

This is not a rash decision made out of spite or failure, but a painful acknowledgment that I no longer recognize this place. The land that once celebrated Freedom, Truth, and the right to think differently is slowly being suffocated. For an immigrant who poured his entire heart and soul into this country, that change feels like a profound betrayal.

But what’s extraordinary is that this turning point did not come from a political crisis, a technological setback, or a global event. It originated from a simple question, uttered by a child one seemingly ordinary evening. That question changed everything.

I remember it clearly. It was a Thursday afternoon. Outside the window, the sky was a little gloomy after a light rain. I had just finished a long online meeting, my mind tired, and I was looking forward to spending some rare time playing with my youngest son. He’s ten, smart, curious, and always tells me all sorts of stories when he gets home from school.

He walked into my study. His backpack was still on his shoulder, his uniform shirt wrinkled from playing sports. But his gaze that day was different. There was none of the usual enthusiastic chatter; instead, there was confusion, a hint of bewilderment, as if he had just witnessed something illogical that his young mind couldn’t process. He stood silent for a while, then asked me slowly, full of doubt, as if afraid to harm something sacred:

“Dad, my teacher said our family has wrong thoughts. Are we weird, Dad?”

I paused, completely stunned. I had faced the most powerful politicians, negotiated with the world’s biggest investors, and answered thousands of thorny questions from the global media. But that question, from my young son, whom I always taught about independent thinking and daring to question, left me speechless.

I looked deeply into his innocent eyes. In them was hurt and a fundamental confusion: he couldn’t understand why the values we taught at home—about not blindly accepting everything, about daring to think differently—were being labeled as wrong, even dangerous. I taught him not everyone in a white coat or on a lecture stage is always right, and now, that very lesson was being challenged in his school.

I pulled him down next to me, quietly putting an arm around his shoulder. He spoke as if waiting for my nod to unburden his heart:

“I only said there are different perspectives on that issue, but the teacher said some views are dangerous, and I should stay silent if I don’t understand everything. But Dad, if I don’t ask, how can I understand?”

I tried to manage a faint smile, but my heart was throbbing. My son was not wrong. His question was perfectly logical; it touched the core of curiosity—the fire that had lit my entire career. And the adult reaction, the way society is now trying to suffocate that fire, is something I cannot accept.

I barely slept that night. I lay there, listening to the wind outside the window, my mind racing through countless moments over the past thirty years since I first set foot in America.

I remembered that first moment. It wasn’t a business-class flight, but a cramped seat, my back aching after more than twenty hours. I arrived with an old suitcase, a few clothes, a notebook full of physics theories, and dozens of crazy, formless ideas. I had no money, no connections, only two things: ambition and faith.

Faith that America was a place where a poor student from South Africa could dream of changing entire industries, where you were judged by what you accomplished, not who you were. That was a miracle to me.

I seized that opportunity with everything I had. From Zip2, to PayPal, to the sleepless nights designing every detail of the Falcon rocket, every line of code in the first Tesla software. After every fall, I got back up, because I knew here, no one condemned you for a mistake, as long as you learned from it.

The America I loved was not a place for complacency. It was a land of unfulfilled dreams, where madness was sometimes the path to innovation. I was obsessed with the idea of colonizing Mars. I was considered eccentric for thinking electric cars could surpass gasoline cars. But it was the freedom in thought, in the market, in academia that created the space for me and thousands of others to thrive. No one forced me to seek approval from an ethics committee to think differently.

But what now? I looked at my wife. Her eyes also reflected deep concern—not for work or money, but for the spiritual environment our children were growing up in. She whispered, “You once said, the future is what we make. But if they grow up in an environment that doesn’t allow different thinking, will they still dare to dream?”

I didn’t dare tell my son: “No, son, your independent thoughts are not wrong.” Not because I didn’t know, but because the answer was too painful: “But America, the America I once believed in, may have changed.”

I started recalling a series of painful memories, evidence of this decline.

I remembered meeting young engineers who were fired just for voicing personal opinions online. I remembered scientists losing funding for pursuing research that didn’t align with the current trend. I remembered parents criticized as conservative just for not wanting schools to teach ideologies contrary to their family beliefs.

At the time, I thought this might be a temporary phenomenon, a cultural wave that would pass. But after my son’s question, I knew I was wrong. This wasn’t a shower, this was the long rainy season.

I once thought that if I just offered input, if I just spoke my mind, the system would listen, but I tried and failed.

Things became clearer when I noticed my children growing reserved about what they learned in school. One evening, my usually open daughter, quietly asked: “Dad, if the teachers say something different from what you and Mom teach, who should I believe?”

She shared that in her social studies class, the teacher said the family is an outdated concept, that modern society needs to “dismantle the controlling role of parents for children to freely develop their personal identity.” She said many parents impose moral values and that is toxic.

I felt a chill down my spine. This was no longer a difference in academic content; it was a systematic imposition of ideology. A teacher, tasked with guiding students to knowledge, was using that position to sow doubt about the family. I once believed that school was where people learned how to think. Now, I see many places are teaching students what to think. Worse, they punish those who dare to think otherwise.

My son told me that once, during civics class, he said everyone should be free to express their opinion, even if it’s unpopular. That statement led to him being called to the office and later having to write a commitment not to repeat “potentially provocative statements.” I was numb. A child speaking about freedom of speech, enshrined in the constitution, was considered a disruptive statement.

Even in science, my daughter decided to research the effectiveness of nuclear energy in reducing greenhouse gas emissions. A sound, academic, and practical topic. But her teacher refused to let her present it, on the grounds that it was a controversial topic and might make some students feel uncomfortable. A scientifically-backed argument was dismissed not because it was wrong, but because it was uncomfortable.

This intellectual constraint is not just happening in schools; it has spread to the workplace—the very heart of American creativity.

I am witnessing the erosion of the “act first, apologize later” spirit, gradually replaced by a “permission culture.”

I remember when we started building SpaceX, everything was new. Despite having to comply with the law, the environment at the time allowed us to experiment, err, learn, and grow. Regulators understood that innovation needed to happen first, and regulations would follow. We launched rocket prototypes, and although some failed (like Star Hopper), those failures were invaluable lessons, stepping stones to later success.

But things are different now. The regulatory system in the US is evolving faster than the people it regulates. Committees, departments, oversight agencies are no longer supporters but have become obstructionists.

I worked with a team of brilliant engineers developing a groundbreaking clean energy technology. They spent over a year just trying to secure a set of permits for real-world testing. In the meantime, the technology became obsolete because the market shifted. It wasn’t that the technology wasn’t good enough; it was that the system prevented it from taking off.

I asked a group of young startups why they weren’t pursuing bigger, riskier ideas. Their answer was disheartening: “We don’t have the money to wait two years for permits, and we don’t want to spend three years proving our idea won’t have a negative impact. It’s easier to launch a fashion app.”

The most dangerous thing is not the permits or the regulations, but the culture that comes with them. A culture that makes people afraid of being wrong, afraid of being sued, afraid of being called before a review board. A culture where every big idea must pass through a barrage of questions: Has it been approved? Is it safe? Will it be opposed? Is it aligned with universal values?

I once said that a developing country must be a place where ideas precede policy, not policy dragging behind ideas. But the US is currently heading in the opposite direction.

Amidst all this evidence—the sight of my son being called “weird” for independent thought, brilliant engineers stuck in a labyrinth of paperwork, my daughter forbidden from scientific debate for fear of “discomfort”—I knew it was time to make a choice.

I am a businessman; I am accustomed to trade-offs, risk analysis, and making decisions in imperfect situations. But this decision is not about technology or business strategy. This is a decision about family, about my children, about their spiritual future.

I lay there, thinking about a time when my company was on the verge of bankruptcy, and I had to choose between keeping SpaceX or Tesla because I only had enough money for one. I decided to split the money I had, even though the probability of both failing was very high. When asked why I took such a risk, I replied: “Because if you don’t take risks, what’s the point of living?”

Now, I face a different decision, not about a company, but about my family’s future. And I know this time I cannot gamble on hope. I need to act.

I turned to look at my sleeping son, his eyes closed but his brow furrowed as if still troubled.

I cannot accept that my child will grow up in a society where asking questions becomes an act of rebellion. Where curiosity is a danger that needs control. I don’t want them to grow up in a mediocre version of America, where they are only allowed to dream within prescribed limits. They will think compliance is the safest choice, and dissent is a reckless act.

I tried to change it from within, but I failed. The door for dialogue between parents and schools is narrowing. Creativity is being strangled by layers of permits. The river that once flowed strongly is running dry.

This is the climax: I know I cannot resurrect the American Dream here. I cannot just bury my head in work, make money, and hope things will go back to how they were. I have to find that river again, or at least another tributary, where the free current still flows.

I am not leaving to betray. I am leaving to preserve. To preserve for my children the values that America once stood for: Freedom, Creativity, Critical Thinking, Courage, and Independence.

I know some will call me a coward, overly sensitive, or unable to adapt. But I don’t care. Because as a father, sometimes you have to choose the path no one supports if it’s the only one you believe is right for your children.

I don’t expect a perfect America. I only yearn for an America true to the essence that made me love it. Where dreamers are not punished, where children are not taught to fear difference.

The American Dream is not dead to me, but it is being suffocated. And if I cannot revive it here, at least I can take it with me, and plant it elsewhere, where my children can still dream, question, dissent, explore, and be themselves.

I write these lines not to start an argument, but to share. And to tell other fathers and mothers out there: if one day your child asks you a question that leaves you speechless, perhaps that is the moment you need to stop and listen. Because the difficult questions from children are sometimes the wake-up call for our entire lives.

And that was the day I knew I had to change, not for myself, but for my children. That was the day my son asked me a question that, even today, is painful to recall.

But from that moment, a new journey began—a quest to find the pioneering spirit for the next generation. I don’t know if where I’m going will be perfect. No place is. But at least I am proactively protecting my family’s future, instead of passively hoping things will be alright. I am finding the way back to a place where the currents of thought are still free to surge, unbound by fear or bureaucracy.

The river has shifted its course, and so must I, so that those core values are never washed away.