No one in my life has been deported. I’ve never come home to an empty kitchen chair. I’ve never had a friend disappear because of ICE. I haven’t had to cross the border, prove my humanity, or worry about being "illegal" in a country I call home.

And yet—I still feel the weight of it.

Because I’ve read the testimonies. I’ve seen the statistics. I’ve studied the psychological toll. I’ve watched people flinch when someone says, “They should’ve just done it the legal way.” I’ve listened when kids say nothing at all, because fear makes language a luxury.

Silence protects power. And I want no part of that.

As someone who actively tries to learn about mental health, I know trauma doesn’t need a passport. It seeps into classrooms. It whispers into thoughts. It makes children feel like criminals before they’ve done anything wrong. It convinces parents they can’t ask for help, even when they’re dying.

I may not have lived this story, but I will not live untouched by it. I won’t pretend that just because I’m not directly impacted, I have the right to look away.

This is my open letter. This is my decision to speak up.

Because the systems we live in shape the people we become. And I’d rather be shaped by empathy than apathy.

I used to race him to the car after school. He would unlock the doors and say whoever got there first chooses the music. I always picked his favorite, even if I didn’t like it, because he’d smile and drum his hands on the steering wheel.

Now I walk home alone. But I still check the driveway out of habit. Still listen for his keys jingling. Still set a plate at dinner like he’ll walk through the door.

My mom says he’ll call again soon. I pretend like I believe her.

At school, they say to just focus on your work. But it’s hard when your hands shake when you're holding a pencil. When you dream about border patrol. When someone says “illegal” and it feels like a punch to your stomach, even though you’re just a kid.

He wasn’t a criminal. He was just my dad. And I still wait for him.

Please, make them stop taking people like him away. Please.

I am not a politician. I am not an activist. I am a nurse.

And I need you to understand what happens after the raid ends.

I treat children who haven't spoken in days. Parents with blood pressure so high it borders on stroke. Teens with chest pain that isn’t cardiac. It’s anxiety, grief, and fear packed so tightly in their ribs they can’t breathe.

They don’t tell me they're afraid of ICE. But I see it in how they flinch when we ask for insurance. I see it in the pregnant mother who begs us not to report her because her visa expired. I see it in the father who won’t answer the phone in the ER in case “they” trace it.

This is not hypothetical trauma. This is emergency care.

It’s time we call immigration enforcement what it is. It is a public health crisis. We need trauma-informed care, language access, community trust, and most of all, policy that sees people not as status codes, but as patients, parents, and children.

I do not need another thank-you post. I need change.