As the camera panned over the jubilant crowd at President Donald Trump’s 2025 inauguration, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of America’s decision pressing down on me. My feelings are not just as an observer, but as someone whose life will be affected by the decisions of this administration.
I am a Nicaraguan immigrant under humanitarian parole, a journalist committed to exposing the truth and a woman navigating a world where my rights feel increasingly under threat.
For people like me, the day felt less like a celebration of democracy and more like a prelude to uncertainty.
I was still in Nicaragua when Trump got sworn in for his first term. I was only a teenager with zero understanding of politics.
In my household, political discussions were rare, and I was still figuring out my place in the world. Even so, Trump’s rise to power was impossible to ignore. His rhetoric about immigrants, branding them as criminals and threats, made their way to my house.
At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the consequences of his words, but I knew enough to feel disheartened by the lack of compassion they revealed.
“Those shithole countries send us the people that they don’t want,” said Trump during an Oval Office meeting back in 2018.
It was during my years at a Jesuit university that my political awareness truly awakened. With a career path rooted in social justice and critical thinking, I developed a deeper understanding of human rights, democracy, and the importance of standing against injustice.
I identified Trump as an embodiment of everything I would never support: intolerance, inequality, and the prioritization of power over people.
In 2018, Nicaragua faced a nationwide uprising sparked by social security reforms, with my university, Universidad Centroamericana (UCA), at the heart of the movement.
I joined my friends and classmates in protests, many of whom were later convicted as political felons. After spending a year in Costa Rica for safety, I returned to Nicaragua, only to face new threats when the government confiscated UCA and accessed my student records.
With my safety at risk, I was granted humanitarian parole, a temporary residence program that would give me the chance to rebuild my life in the United States, free from the fear of political persecution.
Now, that lifeline is under threat.
Trump has vowed to eliminate humanitarian parole and has also targeted the asylum process, which I have already begun since returning to Nicaragua is not an option.
Trump pledged to use “all available resources and authorities to stop this unprecedented flood of illegal aliens into the United States,” according to the “Secure Our Borders” Executive Order released on Jan. 20 2025 on the White House website.
His words leave me with a haunting question: what’s next for me?
As Hallelujah echoed across the crowd and fireworks lit up the Washington, D.C. sky, a familiar feeling crept over me. It was the same feeling I had when I first heard about ICE raids in Kern County weeks ago, tearing apart families and deporting hardworking people. Is it fear? Frustration? Disappointment? I don’t know.
I do know this: if I didn’t surrender in Nicaragua, I won’t surrender here either.
Truth must be spoken. Leaders must be held accountable. Democracy can’t be revoked. No matter how uncertain the road ahead feels, I will continue to stand up, not just for myself, but for all those who deserve to be seen, heard, and protected. Because if we stop fighting now, what will be left of the freedom we came here seeking?
