Imagine dedicating years of your life to building a future in a new country, only to have it all threatened overnight. This is the harsh reality for countless immigrant families in Texas, who have been forced into hiding following the latest policy changes under the Trump administration. Take Sara, for instance, a Venezuelan asylum seeker who was on the brink of launching an at-home childcare center in Central Texas. Just as she was preparing for a radio interview to promote her business, she discovered that a new federal immigration order had stripped her of eligibility for legal status. Her story is not unique—it’s a chilling reminder of how quickly dreams can unravel.
But here’s where it gets even more heartbreaking: Sara, her husband, and their two sons now live in constant fear, adhering to strict rules to avoid detection. Curtains remain drawn, doors stay locked, and they avoid answering knocks. Even trips to the grocery store are done individually, in shifts. Social gatherings are a luxury they can no longer afford, unless it’s an emergency. This isn’t just about hiding—it’s about survival. For nearly a decade, they’ve worked tirelessly to achieve economic stability and live lawfully in the U.S., only to see their hopes dashed in an instant.
‘We don’t understand why this administration has left us in such limbo,’ Sara shared, using only her first name out of fear of being targeted by immigration authorities. ‘I came here to contribute, to build a life. Why take that away and force us into this trauma? It robs you of sleep, peace, and even your dignity as a human being.’
And this is the part most people miss: When the Trump administration halted immigration applications for individuals from 19 countries on the federal travel ban list in late November, it didn’t just affect those on the list. The ripple effect has spread fear throughout immigrant communities, even among those from countries not explicitly mentioned. Experts, attorneys, and families told The Texas Tribune that the policy has created a fresh wave of upheaval and uncertainty.
Immigration lawyers like Ali Zakaria in southwest Houston are now facing an uphill battle. ‘It’s going to make our job a lot harder,’ Zakaria explained. ‘Not only do we have to convince the government that our clients are eligible for benefits, but we also have to convince the clients themselves to even submit their applications.’ This raises a controversial question: Is the system designed to deter immigrants from seeking legal status, even when they qualify?
The impact doesn’t stop there. Sarah Spreitzer, vice president at the American Council on Education’s government relations division, warns that the policy could discourage international students from studying in Texas. While the number of international students in the state is relatively small, the chilling effect is undeniable. Colleges across the U.S. have already reported a 17% drop in new international enrollment this fall, even before the policy took effect. ‘The uncertainty is a major factor,’ Spreitzer noted. ‘Why risk your education in a country where visa terms can change suddenly?’
But here’s where it gets controversial: Some argue that stricter immigration policies are necessary for national security. Others believe they unfairly target families like Sara’s, who have done everything by the book. What do you think? Is this policy a justified measure, or does it go too far?
Sara’s journey to the U.S. was anything but easy. After a two-decade career as an elementary school teacher in Venezuela, she and her husband fled due to the oppressive political climate under President Nicolas Maduro. Maduro’s regime has arrested political opponents, exiled critics, and blocked referendums calling for his removal. Sara felt she couldn’t express her political opinions without endangering her family. She was forced to attend rallies for a party she didn’t support and faced threats of imprisonment if she spoke out.
The couple left Venezuela separately. Sara’s husband arrived first on a tourist visa a decade ago, followed by Sara a year later. Their two sons were left behind, living with relatives in Colombia and the Dominican Republic for six long years while their parents petitioned for Temporary Protected Status (TPS). TPS allows immigrants from designated nations, who cannot safely return home, to live and work legally in the U.S. After being granted TPS, they applied for their children to join them. Sara worked grueling jobs—as a line cook, fryer, and nanny—to make ends meet, all while dreaming of a better future.
Eventually, she landed a job at a childcare center and began working with nonprofits to obtain a license to open her own center, which she achieved last year. In 2024, their sons were finally allowed to join them in Texas. Earlier this year, the family hired an attorney and applied for asylum. But instead of finding stability, they’ve faced one setback after another.
First, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem canceled TPS for Venezuelans, along with immigrants from countries like Ethiopia and South Sudan. Then, after two National Guard members were shot by an Afghan national in Washington, D.C., the administration issued a sweeping order barring individuals from 19 countries—including Venezuela, Cuba, Afghanistan, and others in Africa and the Middle East—from applying for green cards and citizenship. Just two days later, the administration announced a temporary halt on all asylum decisions and ordered a review of green card applications, which could include additional interviews with government agents.
‘Fear won,’ Sara said. ‘I felt like I had no rights, no proof that I’m here legally.’ Her sentiment echoes throughout Texas immigrant communities. Joe Morales, a Lufkin resident who has assisted undocumented individuals for over two decades, notes that the work has become increasingly tense. People are terrified of deportation, lack of due process, and potential separation from their families. ‘This pervasive fear can create a ‘shelter in place’ mentality,’ Morales explained, ‘causing people to neglect their basic needs, which can lead to health crises down the line.’
Zakaria calls it ‘just a depressing time.’ Communities are anxious, and while attorneys want to help, their only recourse is the courts, which are already overwhelmed with applications for the release of detained immigrants—both legal and illegal.
For Sara’s family, life has become a shadow of what it once was. After nearly a decade of building a new life, the country they call home feels increasingly like the one they fled. They work less to avoid exposure to potential ICE raids, relying on odd jobs and selling belongings to get by. Sara’s husband and sons have stopped driving for food delivery services, deeming it too risky. Sara continues to take a few nannying jobs for trusted clients, but their income is precarious. They’ve even sold one of their two cars, depositing the money into savings.
‘We came here to build a life, to adapt to the culture, laws, and norms,’ Sara said. ‘But the Trump administration scrapped all of it. You feel imprisoned, oppressed. It’s incredibly inhumane.’ She adds, ‘I understand that some people have done bad things, and I’m not defending them. But to generalize and lump us all together is hurtful, especially when you’ve done everything right and contributed to this country.’
Sara doesn’t know what the future holds. The family has hired an executor to look after their belongings in case they’re separated again, but they have no plan if that happens. She fears starting over in another country and being separated from her sons once more. But if they have to start over, she says, they will.
Here’s the thought-provoking question we leave you with: Are policies like these truly protecting national security, or are they causing unnecessary harm to families who have already endured so much? Share your thoughts in the comments—we want to hear from you.
