I Built A Life In America, Feeling Like I Belonged. Then I Realized It Could All Be Taken Away In An Instant.

Some of my earliest memories are of my immigrant mother’s constant instructions: Learn English, work hard, and don’t talk too much about where we’re from; get an education so you have a better future. I didn’t fully understand why then, but I knew that our lives weren’t like those of my classmates, nor the affluent clients whom she cleaned houses for in Los Feliz to keep food on the table as a single mother. We were different in a way that went beyond the language we spoke at home or the meals we ate at dinner. I grew up surrounded by love and the warmth of family, but there was always a quiet tension beneath the surface, an unspoken understanding that we had to be careful and that we couldn’t risk drawing attention out of fear of deportation given our undocumented status.

It was June of 2012, three months before my 16th birthday, my family and I got the news that Obama introduced the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program, offering young immigrants like me a chance to step out from the shadows and participate in life more fully for two years at a time, subject to renewal at the end of each of those two-year periods, each time with thousands of dollars in legal costs. DACA gave me a sense of permission to dream; my family and I would no longer be worried about me possibly being deported back to my home country of Honduras; I could qualify to obtain a driver's license, get a legitimate job, and even apply and attend college. This is what DACA granted me, access to what I saw was normal for other people around me who were not undocumented.

Throughout my early life, I didn’t give much thought to my immigration status. I grew up in communities of color, went to schools where everyone looked like me, and for a long time, I felt like I belonged. I could work and study, and as far as I knew, I was living a largely uninterrupted life and far from being at risk. My undocumented status wasn’t ever at all central to my identity; it was just something I kept in my back pocket, only ever arising in social settings when the topic came up or when applying for a job that would ask you if you were a citizen. DACA opened doors that allowed me to pursue college, where I earned three degrees and built a career in digital media.

Yet, as I’ve grown older, the reality of DACA’s limitations has become inescapable. While my friends plan trips around the world, I’m stuck finding ways to see what I can within the US. I’ll never forget finding myself in a group text regarding going to Japan, only for me to say I literally couldn’t and promptly leaving the group chat. DACA recipients cannot leave the US without special permission, known as "Advance Parole," which is only granted for specific reasons like work, education, or humanitarian purposes. Traveling abroad without this special permission — which is also wildly expensive and not even guaranteed to be granted by the way — risks one’s DACA status and ability to re-enter the US, making travel difficult if not impossible. Take a moment to wrap your head around that. Difficult or nearly impossible to see the world, to live out one's own free will just to maintain immigration status in a country I have lived in and paid taxes to since I was a teen. Now, as I near 30, I truly do feel the weight of being “temporary.” DACA may have given me a lifeline I’m only now learning to fully appreciate, but it’s one that’s woven with conditions and deadlines. There are days when I feel like I’m in a holding pattern, doing everything I can to build a life that could be taken away from me at any moment. The more I think about this, the more cruel I realize it is.

There have been moments where the dreams I’ve worked for seemed just within reach — opportunities to work internationally and clients who invite me to collaborate in South America or Japan. I remember the burst of excitement, the thrill of imagining myself in places I’ve always wanted to see. But the excitement is always cut short by the realization that I can’t go. I have explained this to clients and friends, and their response is often a casual “oh well,” a shrug of indifference that stings, making me feel small, cast out, shunned, hexed, unworthy, inadequate, etc. “It’s okay; there’s still a lot I can do here within the US,” is what I’ve told myself after those encounters. “Maybe in the future” is another thing I’ve told myself over the years, but with every passing day, it becomes scarier, and I may be delusional to think it may actually ever happen. I’ve tried to fill those darker moments with accomplishments (or cookie jar memories, as David Goggins would say) that make me proud and confident in myself, that I can point to as evidence of my dedication and worth. But behind the scenes, hidden from my family and friends, I’ve often felt the suffocating weight of inadequacy and survivor's guilt. Social media doesn’t help — I see peers and colleagues, people with the same ambitions and talent, surpassing me, moving through life with an ease that feels painfully out of reach for me. I remember how much it hurt me that an aunt of mine was having a wedding ceremony they didn’t bother to ask me to attend because they knew I couldn’t get on a plane to fly there anyways. Years later, we laughed about it, but she never knew how that moment affected me.As the eldest child, I strive to be a positive role model and a source of pride for my family. Balancing the weight of their immigrant expectations with my own ambitions has driven me to achieve but has also led to moments of deep sadness and isolation. I've often hidden my struggles with depression and self-doubt, fearing disappointment. I still continue to feel a layer of survivor's guilt, knowing many in my family would do anything to experience the opportunities I’ve had — thanks to DACA.

In these darker times, I’ve clung to the things that ground me. My faith in God, rediscovered during a particularly low point in 2023 when I was laid off from my dream job at BuzzFeed, has given me unmeasurable strength. I think back to the Sundays my mother took us to church, her quiet hope that we would find comfort in faith. Now, I find myself turning to that same faith, not as a means of escape but as a source of resilience and hope for all things. And then there’s cycling, a passion I stumbled into at 15, which has since grown into a discipline, a release, and even a significant source of income. Each moment of euphoria, when reaching the peak of a mountain is a reminder of the power of persistence. Cycling and weightlifting have taught me that each repetition only makes me stronger no matter how heavy the load. It’s a lesson I carry into every challenge I face as a Dreamer. As I navigate these complex emotions and the peaks and valleys that come with them, I do my best to remain hopeful. It’s difficult to articulate just how alone I have felt in the past, and sometimes continue to feel, with so much uncertainty in this situation. But I remind myself that fear and uncertainty have been with me before, and each time, I’ve found a way through. I believe there is a place for me here, in the country where I love and have given my best self. As of recent, especially since the results of the 2024 election, I have had the deportation of my family and me on my mind. I ask myself: What if I could go somewhere else? Trump tried removing the DACA program once before; what if this time he is actually successful? A small part of me tries to feel excited by the thought — but only for a small fraction of a second; however, I’m quickly humbled by the cold hard fact that leaving would mean I could never come back and that I’d be leaving behind a place I fought so hard to be part of. I know I would carry the shame of being cast out, not because of any wrongdoing on my part but because of a system that truly never saw me as one of its own, but gave me a taste of what I could have been like. I think of my cousins that were born here who would not face the risk of being sent back to Honduras like I would and never being able to be there with them to see them grow older. It would be unimaginably painful to look at some people in my life for what might be the last time ever as they said goodbye to me at the airport. It’s unimaginable to me that I could be deported after having given so much to have what I have now, only for it to be stripped from me and consolidated into a duffle bag if I was sent back.Sent back. Back? I have no recollection of what there is to go back to because I was brought to the US at 3 years old. Why, if I’ve caused no harm to anyone, have paid taxes all my adult life, and have employed Americans through my businesses, would you want to cast me out in this way?

But as I look to the future, I try to choose hope and optimism. I hope for a day when Dreamers like me are given a permanent place to call home, ideally the United States — the only place we have ever known. I hope for the freedom of international travel to see my family back in Honduras. I hope for a life where restrictions do not shackle me and where I can proudly claim my space in this life without fear. Fear. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone to live their lives in fear. Simply writing this essay hurts me.

I want to conclude with this. This is as vulnerable as I have ever been online. My family describes me as a hyper-fixated, highly motivated, and accomplished person. What they don’t know, and maybe will finally learn by reading this essay, is what I’ve achieved so far has never been because this was always in my DNA or I was born this way. Everything so far has been for them.

For my immigrant parents, it’s been a lifelong journey of saying thank you for risking their lives to allow me to grow up in the United States.

If Trump’s administration succeeds in removing people like me, I’ll be proud of the legacy I’m leaving in my family's life.

I’ll get on that plane back to Honduras if I have to, knowing I did the best I could with my time here.Dilan Garcia Lopez is a Latino digital media professional living in Los Angeles, California. He is originally from Tegucigalpa, Honduras. Dilan specializes in short-form video and content analytics. You can find more of his work on his website here, or keep up with his full-service mobile espresso bar, Brutal Coffee, here.Do you have a personal story you’d like to see published on BuzzFeed? Send us a pitch at essay-pitch@buzzfeed.com.