On family, fear, and the human cost of uncertainty

Living in the United States right now does not feel safe. Not in the dramatic sense. In the quiet, unsettled way that seeps into daily life. The kind that makes people move more carefully, speak more softly, and brace for things they cannot quite name.

For my family, that unsettled feeling has a very specific shape.

I feel it as a parent, watching the world my children are growing up in. There is so much pain everywhere. So much fear. And it feels like the margin for error, for misunderstanding, for being human, keeps shrinking.

I am trying to stay present with that reality without letting it harden me.

My wife is first-generation American. Her parents came here as refugees. Their history is not something we talk about abstractly. It lives in our family. It shapes how we see the world and how we move through it.

Almost weekly, my wife tells me about someone she knows who has been detained or deported. A coworker’s cousin. A friend from church. Someone’s brother. These stories are not delivered with shock anymore. They come with sadness, concern, anger, and a kind of weary familiarity. The fear is cumulative.

Her mother works at a factory in Wisconsin. She is a lawful permanent resident. She has taken to carrying her green card in her pocket any time she leaves home, fearing she may not be allowed time to search for it if she does not. She has worked, paid taxes, and lived quietly for years. And still, she is afraid.

There are rumors that immigration enforcement may come to her workplace, as they have to others in the area. The fear is not just about being questioned or stopped. It is about what happens when fear enters a crowded workplace. When people panic. When someone runs. When someone misunderstands. When a situation that should be procedural becomes volatile.

The danger is not only the unpredictability of a raid. It is the unpredictability of how people respond when fear takes over.

My wife also has an uncle whose story sits even heavier with us.

He was born in a refugee camp in Southeast Asia, likely in Laos or a neighboring country, and came to the United States as a child. Because of that, he never truly had residency anywhere. He grew up here, but on paper, he belonged nowhere.

As a young man, he made poor choices. He got caught up in street life and served prison time. After that, he changed his life. He started a family. He worked. He stayed out of trouble. He did what we tell people to do when they want to make things right.

Still, he was detained. A bond of seven thousand dollars was set. Our family could not raise that money before Laos accepted him for deportation.

A man who had never lived in that country was deported to it alone.

His family remained in California. Including his child, who is autistic and non-verbal. A child who does not understand where his father went, only that he is gone.

Yes, mistakes were made. Yes, the law allows this.

But legality does not erase pain. It does not make the loss easier. It does not soften the impact on children who lose access to a parent overnight. It does not change the reality that families absorb the consequences long after a decision is made.

That is what feels hardest to me right now. The way systems move forward while families are left holding the aftermath.

Inside our home, I think a lot about what I want my children to learn from all of this. Not about policy. About people.

I want them to see that accountability and compassion can exist at the same time. That acknowledging harm does not require dehumanizing someone. That dignity should not be conditional.

I want us to remain human toward each other, because I want my kids to see that choosing humanity matters. Especially when systems do not.

I do not have neat answers. I am not trying to solve anything here.

I am trying to stay awake to the ripple effects of fear and loss. To remember that behind every headline or rumor or decision, there are families trying to get through their days. Children trying to make sense of sudden absence. Parents carrying grief quietly.

At the end of the day, it comes back to my wife and our kids. To the small, ordinary choices we make about how we talk, how we listen, how we hold complexity without turning away.

The world feels heavy right now. But I still believe our humanity matters. And I want my children to see us choose it, even when it would be easier not to.