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.
