To the outside world, Isabel is a thriving professional in her early 30s. But each morning, she wakes up with a racing heart and an overwhelming sense of dread. Before heading off to work, she is gripped by a paralyzing panic. The fear has never truly faded. It lingers, an invisible weight pressing down on her chest.

“I’ve felt this way since I was 11,” Isabel told me during one of our counseling sessions. “The day my mom told me, ‘If I’m not here when you come back from school, don’t be scared. I didn’t abandon you. I was deported.’” (Note: The name and other identifiable details of this patient have been changed to protect their privacy.)

That moment shattered her childhood. Every morning, she left for school burdened by uncertainty, not knowing if she would return to an empty home. The fear burrowed into her psyche, manifesting as debilitating anxiety that followed her into adulthood.

Isabel’s story is not unique. As a psychotherapist, I have worked with many adults — particularly from Latin American backgrounds — whose anxiety, depression and post-traumatic stress stem from childhood experiences of immigration enforcement. They grew up in constant fear that their parents might be taken from them.

President Donald Trump has stoked that fear with his vow to carry out “the largest deportation operation in American history.” His plan, reminiscent of what was called “Operation Wetback” in the 1950s, would tear families apart, inflicting unimaginable psychological damage on the children left behind.

Mass deportation is framed as law and order, yet rarely do we discuss its profound human toll — not just on those deported, but on their children and communities. Family separation is not a momentary crisis; it is a trauma that lingers for generations.

Neuroscience confirms that childhood trauma has lasting consequences. When children live in prolonged fear, their developing brains adapt for survival. They learn to anticipate danger, distrust stability and brace for loss. Even when the immediate threat is gone, the scars remain. Many struggle with chronic anxiety and depression. Others develop stress-related health issues that impact them for life.

Undocumented immigrants are often dehumanized, criminalized and reduced to statistics. We rarely acknowledge them for who they truly are: parents seeking safety, families striving for a better future, individuals fleeing violence and economic devastation.

To those who support mass deportation, I ask, what happens to the children left behind? Are we prepared to accept the generational trauma that follows? Do we truly believe that punishing parents — who came here out of desperation — serves justice?

Rather than mass deportations, we need a compassionate immigration strategy. A comprehensive approach must include a pathway to legalization for long-term undocumented immigrants, granting permanent status for “Dreamers” and providing work-based legalization options. Humane and efficient asylum processing is essential, requiring more immigration judges, structured refugee resettlement programs and legal entry pathways.

Prioritizing family unity is crucial to ending family separations and ensuring protections for mixed-status families. Expanding work visas to align with labor market demands, particularly for agricultural and essential workers, would support economic stability. Addressing the root causes of migration through efforts to stabilize violence-stricken regions and foster trade partnerships is vital.

Immigration enforcement should be reformed to prevent mass deportations and ensure humane treatment of detainees. And bipartisan immigration reform must modernize outdated policies by involving local governments, businesses and nonprofits in immigrant integration.

The current administration is enacting none of these measures. The costs of this cruelty — psychological, economic and social — will be devastating.

If we claim to value family, if we believe in the sanctity of the home, then we must reject policies that tear families apart and advocate for humane reforms that protect children from lifelong harm.

For Isabel, the panic still comes every morning. But what if the next generation didn’t have to grow up with this fear? What if, instead of perpetuating trauma, we chose compassion, dignity and the right for all families to build a future without fear?

The wounds of mass deportation are not just personal tragedies; they are national failings. And unless we change course, they will continue to shape generations to come.

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Nahid Fattahi is a psychotherapist, human rights activist, a Public Voices Fellow on Advancing the Rights of Women and Girls, a partnership between Equality Now and The OpEd Project. She lives in Bay Area, California. This column was produced for Progressive Perspectives, a project of The Progressive magazine, and distributed by Tribune News Service.

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