SM, an immigrant from Mexico, is currently sheltering as the Trump administration's cruel immigration operation continues. She writes the piece below from the Twin Cities-area home where she has been hiding for the last several months.
I didn't ask to come to this country. My mother brought me here when I was six years old. Since then, this has been my life. I grew up here, I learned to navigate the world here, my memories are here, my relationships, my work, and my dreams. I don't know any other home in the same way.
From a very young age, I understood that even though it wasn't my decision to come here, it was my responsibility to do things right. That's why, since I was 15 years old, I've done everything possible to follow the legal channels. I had DACA, which allowed me to study and work, but it also meant living with the constant need to renew it every two years, paying fees, waiting, always with the uncertainty of whether I would be rejected this time. Living with that constant fear becomes part of your life, even if you try not to normalize it.
Today, I'm still in a legal process with a U visa. I have a work permit. I'm doing things correctly. Even so, l am trapped here. Not because I'm running from the law, but because I've seen how the system often doesn't even respect its own laws, deporting people who are in active legal processes and keeping entire families living in fear. That contradiction is very hard to bear.
These last few months have been especially difficult. The confinement isn't only physical; it's also emotional and mental. There are days of anxiety, of frustration, of feeling that everything is on hold while the world keeps moving forward outside. Even doing everything correctly, there's a real possibility that everything I've built with years of effort could be taken away from me. My stability, my projects, even my company.
I own my own company. I work with integrity; I generate income; I contribute to this country's economy honestly; I don't live on the margins; I live contributing. And yet, there are days when I feel that all of that could disappear in an instant, regardless of how much I've done right. That feeling of fragility is something that leaves a deep mark.
But this experience has also shown me the other side of this country. I've seen the real strength of the community. Ordinary people who organize, who care, who protest, who don't look the other way. Our neighbors, our friends, the people who go out every day to patrol and raise their voices. That solidarity is what has sustained me and what reminds me why I still believe in this country, not as a perfect idea, but as a place built by people.
Thanks to that support, which I never imagined would be so strong, I have been able to move forward with my family, even though we are still confined, not knowing when we will be able to go out without fear.
I miss my soccer community; it has been a huge support for us. Every weekend it was our space to socialize, to de-stress, to feel human amid so much noise, fear, and pressure. To me it's a reminder that we belong, that we are more than just an immigration status.
Many people don't know what Latinos experience every day. They don't see the invisible sacrifices: working long hours, sometimes without being able to spend time with family, carrying enormous responsibilities, and still persevering. We are a hardworking community. Many people only come here to work, to support their families, and to seek a better future for their children. We don't come to cause harm. It's not fair that we are treated like criminals.
In my case, I've had to swallow my pride to accept help. It hasn't been easy. And I know that many don't even have that option. Many live with so much fear that they don't even dare to take the trash out of their homes. Others go to work every day knowing that they might not return, leaving their families in fear. That's a reality that is rarely told, but that is lived every day.
That's why I decided to write this. Because I want to contribute whatever I can to make sure that what many cannot say is heard. I want to use my voice to represent my community, to speak up even while confined, for those who live in silence, for those who feel they cannot speak.
This experience has not broken me, but it has transformed me. It has taught me more resilience, more humility, and more empathy. It has forced me to stop, to look at my life honestly, and to endure uncertainty without losing my integrity. The fear hasn't disappeared, but I've learned not to let it define me.
I'm still here. Grateful. Tired sometimes. Stressed at times. But standing tall. With my feet on the ground. Aware of reality, without idealizing it, and without losing my humanity or hope.
My story isn't unique. It represents thousands of people who, even in silence, continue to positively influence this country every day.
To help sheltering families like the author's, visit neighborrelieffund.org.
