The American Immigration Council is a non-profit, non-partisan organization. Homeland Security Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin recently told NBC News that “DACA does not confer any form of legal status in this country.” Then she went further: any DACA recipient may be detained and deported, and urged them to self-deport.
DACA, or Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, is a U.S. immigration policy designed to provide work authorization and temporary protection from deportation for undocumented immigrants who arrived in the U.S. as children. DACA is not a permanent legal status but rather an exercise of prosecutorial discretion that the US government — across both political parties — has supported for decades to protect many young immigrants from detention and deportation.
Every day, there is a new immigration headline. A new rumor to chase down. A new rule to memorize before it changes again. It’s relentless. It’s exhausting. And the instability is by design. For some, these headlines are just noise. For DACA recipients, they’re a nightmare realized. On the ground, words echoed by administration officials are already affecting communities — showing up in arrests at airports, workplaces, and outside corner stores.
DACA recipient Catalina “Xochitl” Santiago was detained while boarding a flight for a work trip out of El Paso, Texas. Her arrest came without a warrant, and Santiago has now been transferred to a federal immigration processing center, where her status in the country remains uncertain.
Javier Diaz Santana, a deaf and mute DACA recipient, was detained during a raid at his work site. When he tried to identify himself, officers confiscated the tools he relied on to communicate. Javier spent nearly a month in an immigration detention center in El Paso, cut off from his attorney and family. To add insult to injury, Javier was given paperwork in Spanish— a language he cannot read.
Jose Valdovinos was detained outside a Circle K, while in the passenger seat of a vehicle driven by his wife. When his wife asked why Jose was being detained, officers told her, “DACA is no longer considered a legal status in the U.S.” She reminded them that he had a work permit and was employed. “It doesn’t matter,” the agents said, before opening the car door and taking him away.
Right now, we don’t have clarity on why certain DACA recipients are being targeted for detention. We don’t know if these detentions are isolated, the start of a broader shift, or simply the result of mixed messages filtering down to local enforcement. What we do know is that the gap between what’s on paper and what’s happening in real life is widening — and DACA recipients are the ones paying the price.
It’s terrifying. And even though I am no longer a DACA recipient, the fear still hits me like a punch to the chest. There’s no way to rewire my brain away from those fears. If I’m scared, I can’t imagine how my friends, my family, and my community who are still part of the policy feel.
I know the quiet dread that seeps into every milestone. The way you learn to celebrate with one eye on the clock, waiting for it to run out. The fear doesn’t start with the policy memo — it starts the moment someone in power says something reckless into a microphone, knowing the ripple will reach long before the law ever does.
When I was a kid in my immigrant household, I was the one expected to have the answers. Multilingualism became my bridge — first for my parents, then my extended family, then my friends, and eventually my community. I was the one who knew how to fill out the forms, call the offices, and explain the rules. Even now, my inbox is full of messages from people asking, “What’s going to happen to us?” And for the first time in years, around the current news on DACA, I can’t give them an honest answer.
For Xochitl, Javier, and Jose, the promises made to them were never built to last; DACA was never meant to be permanent, but it allowed people temporary protections until a more permanent pathway could be created. It gave people enough stability to plant roots, raise families, and contribute openly without looking over their shoulders every second. When you’ve built your life from table scraps, you learn how to stretch them into meals; now, even those scraps feel like they’re slipping away.
I survived that uncertainty. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. And right now — as the courts stall, Congress hides behind gridlock, and the Trump administration sends mixed signals — people’s lives are hanging in the balance. In a country where free speech can be weaponized against entire communities, no one should be surprised that enforcement is expanding to those with “protections.”
Permanent protections aren’t optional anymore. They are the only way to end this cycle of fear and uncertainty. Every day without them is another day where someone risks losing their job, their home, or their freedom. We cannot keep treating DACA recipients like a temporary problem to be managed every few years. That’s not just bad policy; it’s cruel.
People deserve more than this fog. Immigrants deserve clarity. And DACA recipients deserve to wake up without wondering if today is the day it all disappears.
