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When I moved to the U.S. ten years ago, I never imagined I would one day worry about my legal status. My employer handled everything, and within five years, I received my green card. I was relieved — not having to stress over visa expirations felt like a huge weight had been lifted. I believed life as a permanent resident would be simpler from then on.
I’ve always loved traveling the world. It’s a core part of who I am. And while I’ve often had to factor in my safety as a queer woman, especially when choosing certain destinations, I’ve never felt unable to travel altogether.
Until now.
For the past five months, I’ve been terrified to book any trips. Just the thought of scheduling a flight fills me with dread. I picture myself at the airport, surrounded by thousands of travelers, unsure if I’ll be the one pulled aside. The anxiety builds before I even open the booking site.
What unsettles me most is the increasing number of reports involving visa holders, permanent residents — even U.S. citizens — being detained by immigration authorities, held in ICE facilities, deported, or transferred to prisons in other countries. Often, these individuals haven’t committed any crimes. These stories are deeply alarming, and yet so many people still assume this could never happen to someone like me.
But the reality is it could. No one is immune, and that uncertainty is what keeps me on edge.
I’m originally from the U.K., and I haven’t seen my niece and nephew in over a year and a half. I’ve missed birthdays, milestones, and ordinary moments I’ll never get back because I’m too afraid to fly abroad and risk not being allowed back into the country, or, worse, being arrested and held in inhumane conditions for reasons I may never even be told.
I’ve found myself imagining scenarios where ICE detains me at work, or pulls me over while driving, or even approaches me in a restaurant. These thoughts aren’t fleeting — they’re vivid, invasive, and anxiety-inducing. As someone who already lives with depression and anxiety, this added fear is exhausting. It lingers beneath the surface of daily life, shaping how I move through the world, even when I try to pretend everything is fine.
What I wish people understood is that these fears are not abstract — they are lived, daily realities for so many of us. The choice of President hasn’t just influenced policy; it has shaped the emotional landscape of our lives. It has made people like me feel less safe in spaces we once felt we belonged to. The rhetoric, the uncertainty, the growing list of headlines all chip away at a sense of stability we fought hard to build.
I know I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve followed every rule, checked every box. But that doesn’t feel like enough anymore. I am not a criminal — but I am a person of color, a member of the LGBTQ community, a woman. These are all aspects of my identity that, in this climate, increase my risk of being targeted. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I’m being dramatic. But am I?
This isn’t about partisanship. It’s about humanity. About being able to live your life without fear of being punished for simply existing.
And yet, despite the fear, I’m planning a trip.
It scares me. I can feel the weight of everything urging me to stay put. But I’m going anyway. Because travel is part of who I am. Because fear doesn’t get to have the final say. Because I shouldn’t have to stop being myself just because someone in power wants to make me feel small.
This, for me, is a quiet act of resistance. A reminder that joy and freedom are worth protecting, even when they feel fragile.
This article appears in Jun 18-24, 2025.
