When Trump was elected the first time, a part of me gave up. I knew things would change. I knew it meant racism would be tolerated more openly than I was ready for. I wasn’t scared—I was disappointed.
The second time around, I felt frustrated. After the surge of the DEI movement, I truly thought we had learned something. I thought maybe—just maybe—we had changed as people.
And just like he said, mass deportations began.
No, I don’t live in the U.S. But I know many Latine folks have families there. I have family members that have lived undocumented. When I was a teenager I read their journals. I sat with their words. I felt the fear in their stories—of walking to work, going to do their groceries, going out for dinner with friends and spotting an ICE vehicle, then ducking behind a building as quickly as possible, praying not to be seen.
Now, once again, we’re seeing mass deportations. ICE Raids. Families torn apart. Children in detention centers. Violence. Fear. Silence.
We may not be in the U.S., but these are our brothers and sisters. Our cousins. Our people. And it hurts. That pain is valid. You’re allowed to feel it. We’re human—and witnessing this kind of harm can be heavy.
Sometimes I feel guilty for being here—safe, far away, able to watch all of this unfold from a distance. That guilt has a name: survivor’s guilt.
It shows up as helplessness, anger, grief. As questions like “Why them and not me?” or “Am I doing enough?”
Lately, I’ve felt overwhelmed by the flood of news, the videos, the endless updates.
If you’re feeling it too: It’s okay to take a breather.
You’re not alone.
I want you to know: your feelings are real, and they matter. Caring this deeply is not weakness—it’s love. It’s connection
I’m here to talk if you want.And please—remember this:
No one is illegal on stolen land.
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