Last year, I received an email from my company’s CEO announcing that I had been selected as one of just 14 employees globally to travel to Iceland. This would have been an important sustainability trip with senior leadership and the CEO himself. It was a milestone moment that I had earned.
When I got the news, I felt immense pride, but also dread. Once again, I stood at the intersection of my dreams and the invisible wall of U.S. immigration policy.
I’ve lived in Texas for over 20 years. Like many others, I came as a child, small hands carrying dreams too big for borders or for understanding immigration laws. I grew up American, in my language, in my classrooms, and in the way my heart sings the anthem. But the documents never quite caught up.
I’m a recipient of Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, or DACA. It’s a policy that allows me to legally work and protects me from deportation. It has given me a lifeline. Despite facing countless obstacles as a DACA recipient, I went on to earn a degree from a top university. I’ve paid thousands in taxes. Additionally, driven by a deep commitment to giving back to my community, I dedicated thousands of hours to service, even earning the Presidential Service Award. I built a career as a financial accountant at a Fortune Global 500 company, one of the largest corporations in the world, yet my life remains legally fragile.
That trip to Iceland would have marked my first time crossing a border since arriving in the U.S., a chance to see the world beyond. It also would have offered a rare opportunity for legal reentry, something DACA recipients can apply for through a process known as Advance Parole.
So, with all the proper documentation, I walked into a U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services office. My hands were full of paperwork. My heart was full of hope. But the words that came back were crushing: “You have all the proof, but we cannot approve you.”
The denial was based not on law, but on an invisible internal memo, they said, one that quietly closed the doors on Advance Parole for people like me. Without warning. Without a chance to appeal.
And if ongoing efforts such as the Texas court case succeed in ending the DACA program, it won’t just be my dreams coming to an end.
There are about 580,000 of us, DREAMers, as we’re often called, who were brought here as children and grew up believing in the American promise. We are your teachers, engineers, nurses, parents, and taxpayers. We contribute billions to our communities and the economy each year. Yet our right to simply exist in the only home we’ve ever known can disappear with a single policy memo no one can see.
If DACA ends, Texas stands to lose tens of thousands of skilled workers overnight. That would drain talent from the very sectors the state relies on and create hiring crises employers are already warning about. Losing DREAMers would create holes in the workforce that no state, especially one growing as fast as Texas, can afford.
I’ve fought for every inch of my life, putting myself through high school, overcoming homelessness, and graduating college. I once even dreamed of becoming a lawyer. But every time I reached another door, it slammed shut.
So I ask: How am I a threat to society? I am your co-worker. Your neighbor. The mother of your child’s classmate. I’m only asking for the chance to keep giving back to the country that raised me. When will I be allowed to live freely?
If we, as Americans, truly honor hard work, perseverance, and love for family, then why punish those of us who embody those values the most?
Ending DACA work permits in Texas won’t just end careers. It will shatter lives like mine. It will fracture the very communities we’ve helped build.
So I ask you, my co-workers and my neighbors: Don’t let them do this to us. Texas’ future depends not just on our voices, but on yours, too.
Edilsa Lopez is a proud DACA recipient and immigration advocate.
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This article appears in February 13 • 2026.
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