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Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
WE ARE MOTHERS.
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"To survive here, you have to be stronger, put in more effort, more than the effort you are already putting in for yourself and your family."
Two mothers reflect on the truths and hardships of what it's like crossing the border. For C, life had some sense of stability before coming to the U.S. She was simply visiting when she made the decision to stay. “My sister invited me to visit,” she said. “I didn’t plan to stay… but I ended up staying.” For A, the decision was immediate and desperate. “I’m a mom. My son needed medical care, and there just weren’t resources where I was. It was about survival.” They both crossed the U.S.-Mexico border — C walked for days under cover of darkness, A surrendered and requested asylum. Both endured conditions that pushed the body and spirit to their limits. “We only had canned beans. The water ran out and we had to drink from a green puddle. My lips were cracked, my knees scraped. But thank God they didn’t catch us.”
C wore all black when she came here, because she was by her guide that it would be easier to stay hidden. “You wear black so no one sees you when you’re running.” A recounted being wrapped in foil-like blankets with her 5-year-old son on a freezing night in the desert. “We didn’t have food. We had to walk two kilometers just to get water,” she said.
After A turned herself in, she faced strip searches, cold cells, and officers who threw away nearly everything she owned. “They only let me keep my son’s clothes and my papers.” Even after arriving, the emotional weight didn’t go away. C described how hard it was to lose her mother while living here in the US. “She passed away and I couldn’t be with her. That’s something I’ll never stop grieving.” A is still adjusting, but says, “We don’t lack food or shelter anymore. That alone means we’re better off than before.”
They both speak to the ache of invisibility, of being reduced to numbers, assumptions, or headlines. “People don’t know how hard it is to come here,” C said. “We pay taxes too, we work hard, but we’re still made to feel like we don’t belong.” “We’re not here to cause problems,” A added. “We’re here to give our kids a future. It’s painful to see people taken away just for trying to live.” Neither C nor A feels like citizenship is close, even after everything. A has met with more than a dozen lawyers and still hasn’t found a clear path forward. “Even with everything we’ve been through, they say I have about a 5% chance.”
Still, they hold on to symbols of their journey. C kept the black sweater she wore while crossing — torn but still with her. A carried a rosary and small images of the Virgin of Guadalupe. “They gave me strength,” she said. “It’s not always a happy memory… but it’s one I never want to forget.”
“I’m a mom. My son needed medical care, and there just weren’t resources where I was. It was about survival.”
Join the story
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
"To survive here, you have to be stronger, put in more effort, more than the effort you are already putting in for yourself and your family."
Before coming to the U.S., life had some sense of stability. C was simply visiting family when she made the decision to stay. “My sister invited me to visit,” she said. “I didn’t plan to stay… but I ended up staying.” For A, the decision was immediate — and desperate. “I’m a mom. My son needed medical care, and there just weren’t resources where I was. It was about survival.” They both crossed the U.S.-Mexico border — C walked for days under cover of darkness, A surrendered and requested asylum. Both endured conditions that pushed the body and spirit to their limits. “We only had canned beans. The water ran out and we had to drink from a green puddle. My lips were cracked, my knees scraped. But thank God they didn’t catch us.”
She wore all black — pants, jacket, shoes — so she could stay hidden. “You wear black so no one sees you when you’re running.” A recounted being wrapped in foil-like blankets with her 5-year-old son on a freezing night in the desert. “We didn’t have food. We had to walk two kilometers just to get water,” she said.
After turning herself in, she faced strip searches, cold cells, and officers who threw away nearly everything she owned. “They only let me keep my son’s clothes and my papers.” Even after arriving, the emotional weight didn’t go away. C’s voice cracked as she described losing her mother while living here. “She passed away and I couldn’t be with her. That’s something I’ll never stop grieving.” A is still adjusting, but says, “We don’t lack food or shelter anymore. That alone means we’re better off than before.”
They both speak to the ache of invisibility — of being reduced to numbers, assumptions, or headlines. “People don’t know how hard it is to come here,” C said. “We pay taxes too, we work hard, but we’re still made to feel like we don’t belong.” “We’re not here to cause problems,” A added. “We’re here to give our kids a future. It’s painful to see people taken away just for trying to live.” Neither C nor A feels like citizenship is close, even after everything. C has met with more than a dozen lawyers and still hasn’t found a clear path forward. “Even with everything we’ve been through, they say I have about a 5% chance.”
Still, they hold on to symbols of their journey. C kept the black sweater she wore while crossing — torn but still with her. A carried a rosary and small images of the Virgin of Guadalupe. “They gave me strength,” she said. “It’s not always a happy memory… but it’s one I never want to forget.”
WE ARE MOTHERS.
WE ARE MOTHERS.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Scroll to read more
"To survive here, you have to be stronger, put in more effort, more than the effort you are already putting in for yourself and your family."
Two mothers reflect on the truths and hardships of what it's like crossing the border. For C, life had some sense of stability before coming to the U.S. She was simply visiting when she made the decision to stay. “My sister invited me to visit,” she said. “I didn’t plan to stay… but I ended up staying.” For A, the decision was immediate and desperate. “I’m a mom. My son needed medical care, and there just weren’t resources where I was. It was about survival.” They both crossed the U.S.-Mexico border — C walked for days under cover of darkness, A surrendered and requested asylum. Both endured conditions that pushed the body and spirit to their limits. “We only had canned beans. The water ran out and we had to drink from a green puddle. My lips were cracked, my knees scraped. But thank God they didn’t catch us.”
C wore all black when she came here, because she was by her guide that it would be easier to stay hidden. “You wear black so no one sees you when you’re running.” A recounted being wrapped in foil-like blankets with her 5-year-old son on a freezing night in the desert. “We didn’t have food. We had to walk two kilometers just to get water,” she said.
After A turned herself in, she faced strip searches, cold cells, and officers who threw away nearly everything she owned. “They only let me keep my son’s clothes and my papers.” Even after arriving, the emotional weight didn’t go away. C described how hard it was to lose her mother while living here in the US. “She passed away and I couldn’t be with her. That’s something I’ll never stop grieving.” A is still adjusting, but says, “We don’t lack food or shelter anymore. That alone means we’re better off than before.”
They both speak to the ache of invisibility, of being reduced to numbers, assumptions, or headlines. “People don’t know how hard it is to come here,” C said. “We pay taxes too, we work hard, but we’re still made to feel like we don’t belong.” “We’re not here to cause problems,” A added. “We’re here to give our kids a future. It’s painful to see people taken away just for trying to live.” Neither C nor A feels like citizenship is close, even after everything. A has met with more than a dozen lawyers and still hasn’t found a clear path forward. “Even with everything we’ve been through, they say I have about a 5% chance.”
Still, they hold on to symbols of their journey. C kept the black sweater she wore while crossing — torn but still with her. A carried a rosary and small images of the Virgin of Guadalupe. “They gave me strength,” she said. “It’s not always a happy memory… but it’s one I never want to forget.”
The struggle that it took my parents to come here and become successful in a foreign place is something that is always on my mind.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
"To survive here, you have to be stronger, put in more effort, more than the effort you are already putting in for yourself and your family."
Two mothers reflect on the truths and hardships of what it's like crossing the border. For C, life had some sense of stability before coming to the U.S. She was simply visiting when she made the decision to stay. “My sister invited me to visit,” she said. “I didn’t plan to stay… but I ended up staying.” For A, the decision was immediate and desperate. “I’m a mom. My son needed medical care, and there just weren’t resources where I was. It was about survival.” They both crossed the U.S.-Mexico border — C walked for days under cover of darkness, A surrendered and requested asylum. Both endured conditions that pushed the body and spirit to their limits. “We only had canned beans. The water ran out and we had to drink from a green puddle. My lips were cracked, my knees scraped. But thank God they didn’t catch us.”
C wore all black when she came here, because she was by her guide that it would be easier to stay hidden. “You wear black so no one sees you when you’re running.” A recounted being wrapped in foil-like blankets with her 5-year-old son on a freezing night in the desert. “We didn’t have food. We had to walk two kilometers just to get water,” she said.
After A turned herself in, she faced strip searches, cold cells, and officers who threw away nearly everything she owned. “They only let me keep my son’s clothes and my papers.” Even after arriving, the emotional weight didn’t go away. C described how hard it was to lose her mother while living here in the US. “She passed away and I couldn’t be with her. That’s something I’ll never stop grieving.” A is still adjusting, but says, “We don’t lack food or shelter anymore. That alone means we’re better off than before.”
They both speak to the ache of invisibility, of being reduced to numbers, assumptions, or headlines. “People don’t know how hard it is to come here,” C said. “We pay taxes too, we work hard, but we’re still made to feel like we don’t belong.” “We’re not here to cause problems,” A added. “We’re here to give our kids a future. It’s painful to see people taken away just for trying to live.” Neither C nor A feels like citizenship is close, even after everything. A has met with more than a dozen lawyers and still hasn’t found a clear path forward. “Even with everything we’ve been through, they say I have about a 5% chance.”
Still, they hold on to symbols of their journey. C kept the black sweater she wore while crossing — torn but still with her. A carried a rosary and small images of the Virgin of Guadalupe. “They gave me strength,” she said. “It’s not always a happy memory… but it’s one I never want to forget.”
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