I want you to meet L. She’s in her mid-20s and loves mid-20-year-old things: iced macchiatos, Bad Bunny, her two mischievous cats.
She’s also a PhD student in Milwaukee. That’s impressive, but sounds like a pretty normal life, right?
Well, almost.
“I think citizenship has just always been something that's so interesting because it's like — people can't see it,” L says. “True to, like, living in the shadows, or it's just something that people don't really talk about. Or oftentimes, the assumption is that you are a U.S. citizen.”
L is undocumented. That’s why WUWM is not using her full name.
“It was very silencing — because even if I did explain that I wasn't a U.S. citizen, I feel like people couldn’t even wrap their head around how that even worked,” L says. “Which is so interesting, because it's the U.S.”
Status Pending has been looking into different pathways to citizenship, but what happens when there is no path?
“I feel like I struggled a lot with trying to find my place, because I felt like I had to be perfect and I had to prove that I was worthy,” L says. “But you don't have to prove that you are worthy, because you are worthy.”
Today, we’re looking at what the options are for someone with big dreams but little help when there’s no clear path forward.
Chapter One: Growing up undocumented
L has lived in the U.S. since she was five years old.
Before that, she and her family lived comfortable lives in Monterrey, Mexico. Her dad was a manager of a graphic design company, and her mom was in school to become a hairdresser.
But as violence between Mexico’s drug cartels escalated, L says her parents became worried about their safety and decided to move to the U.S. in the early 2000s.
“My parents wanted to give us a better life, and they sacrificed the life we had back in Mexico in order for me and my siblings to have a better life and a shot at the American dream,” L says. “Or what we thought of as the American dream.”
L’s family — her mom, dad, two older brothers, and L — traveled to the U.S. legally on tourist visas. They took a bus — a bus ride that would change the rest of their lives.
Her family settled in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and eventually overstayed their visas.
L says life in the U.S. felt almost like a downgrade.
One of her earliest memories here was going to work with her mom at a hair salon. It instilled a level of fear that stayed with her as she grew up in America.
“I remember, like, there'd be instances where she would be cutting people's hair, and she didn't know how to speak [English],” L says. “And people would say really mean things to her. Really racist things. It filled me with so much rage that someone thought that they could talk to my mom like that… But I think at that age it’s such a weird thing to reconcile, because I didn't fully understand all the intricacies of the power structure.”
After L’s dad found out about the way her mom was treated, her mom stopped working at the salon. He wanted to keep her safe.
“I think that's the immigrant dilemma — we have our parents that come from, in some cases, actually being humanized in Mexico, and here [in the U.S.], it's the opposite, because they don't know the language,” L says.
Growing up, L says her parents would ask her not to speak Spanish in public — not even in the grocery store. She didn’t understand when she was 5 years old, but she gets it now.
Her family didn’t want to get outed as undocumented.
“It was hard growing up like that, because the political climate was very much similar to how it is now, where you're hiding your identity. And I have the privilege of being white-passing,” L says. “So my parents very much just wanted me to not let anyone know that we had just moved here and that we were immigrants. Just very fearful. I remember it was almost like living a double life — I know a lot of immigrants will call it 'Hannah Montana.'”
L felt caught between two identities: at home, she could speak Spanish and be herself. At school, she only spoke English and tried to fit in.
“I just almost feel like I’m not Mexican enough,” L says. “But then, of course, I feel I’m not American enough. And I think that was something I really struggled with.”
Growing up like this made her feel silenced, fearful and resentful of this country that prides itself on being built by immigrants.
For years, she says she let the term “illegal immigrant” define her. But not anymore.
Chapter Two: DACA brings hope and disappointment
L came to the U.S. as a child, so you might think she’s the perfect candidate for DACA — Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals.
But getting DACA status was more complicated than you might think.
It’s an Obama-era policy that allowed certain immigrants who were brought to the U.S. as children to apply for temporary permission to live and work here. Protections last for two years and have to be renewed.
DACA was essentially a band-aid for U.S immigration policy 13 years ago.
Obama created it because time and time again, Congress couldn’t agree on permanent legislation to protect young immigrants.
L remembers the moment when she and her family learned about DACA and what it would mean for her older brothers, who were old enough to qualify for it.
“My family is not really, like, an emotional bunch — I think it just comes with the territory of being first gen. But I do remember crying,” L says. “I think it was just really exciting that [my brothers] would not have to work construction, because that's what they were going to do. But it's crazy, because I have such a love-hate relationship with DACA. It's never going to be enough, and they expect us to be super grateful for it. But it also allowed my brothers to live the life that they want to live, which is just really exciting.”
And it was exciting for L, too. But her plans to apply for DACA became uncertain when Donald Trump was elected in 2016.
She says it was a time — similar to now — where a lot of undocumented folks feared sharing any information that the Trump Administration could use against them.
So she met with a lawyer to ask about DACA. But it didn’t go as expected.
“I had a bad lawyer, and she told me not to apply [for DACA], L says. “She told me that I should try going back to Mexico and then come back in again through a student visa. My dad and I are similar, so I remember us sitting there thinking ‘No.’ But we’re cordial, nice people, so we just nodded. It was just extra hurtful because she was basically telling me to go back and try again. But we ended up not filing [for DACA].”
L knows now that was bad advice. But at the time, she and her family decided it was too risky for her to apply for DACA.
Fast forward to the first day of Joe Biden’s presidency in 2021 — he signed a memorandum to preserve DACA after Trump unsuccessfully tried to end it.
L says she immediately applied for DACA, and things started looking up.
“So I pretty much finished the process and got all the way past my biometrics appointment,” L says. “I remember one of my brothers, who has DACA, drove me to the USCIS building to do my biometrics appointment. But yeah, my brothers were super excited for me to get DACA.”
A biometrics appointment is where immigration officials collect fingerprints, a photo and a signature to run background checks.
It’s the last step to complete in the DACA application process.
Weeks passed, and judging from her brothers’ experience, L says she was expecting to hear back any day on her application. But at the time, it was one of thousands waiting for approval.
“It was that same week that President Biden appointed more people to oversee applications because there was such a big backlog,” L says. “And then that same week, the judge in Texas ended up blocking DACA.”
On July 16, 2021, a federal judge in Texas ruled that the DACA program was unlawful and blocked new applicants nationwide, which included L.
She was so close to having some sort of protection as an immigrant.
“It definitely was hard,” L says. “I remember seeing that the judge had blocked it, and I remember, like, not even being able to cry. It was almost like, ‘Of course that would happen.’ So I definitely think I didn't process that one for like, a long time.”
It was another moment where this country, where she’s spent most of her life, told her she couldn’t do something.
As an undocumented person, without legal status, she can’t get a driver’s license — so she takes the bus everywhere. She also can’t apply for a work permit.
Those are just some of the basic things she can’t access. And of course, there’s the fear of deportation.
Chapter Three: No good options
So, L missed the window to qualify for DACA. What other options does she have to legally live in the U.S.?
One of the things you should know about L is that she’s from a mixed-status family. She and her parents are undocumented. Her older brothers have DACA. But her younger brother, who’s 19, is a U.S. citizen. He was born here. He could petition for L to get a green card once he turns 21.
But it’s not quick — the process can take decades and costs thousands of dollars.
Melissa Soberalski is an immigration lawyer in Milwaukee. She says outdated immigration laws make the green card process for family members even longer, especially for siblings and people from certain countries.
“A lot of this legislation was designed in the late 90s — they created legislation that looked at both the volume of immigrants coming from very specific countries, and they were creating quotas based off that time period,” Soberalski says. “There are three countries that are restricted by that, and that is India, China and Mexico. So for the great majority of my client base, most of which come from Mexico, I have to sit down with them and explain the reality that, ‘Yes, you can petition for your sibling, however, we're realistically looking at a 10-or 20-year timeframe before they can move past your petition to getting their residency.’”
Not only is the timeline a huge challenge, but L says she never really considered this option. She’s always seen it as a priority for her youngest brother to petition for residency for their parents first.
Another route that L could possibly take is to apply for a green card through marriage. But she’s not really about that, and it’s financially out of reach for her.
“I think it's hard because part of me is like, ‘I don't need a man!’” L says. “But even if I were to get married, that’s a complex process. I know a friend who just got married, and you're looking at least like $15k in lawyer fees and all the different things you have to do. I think people don't understand how complicated it is, but also, just how non-accessible it is, money-wise. There are so many things that go into it.”
Even if L did follow that route, Soberalski says the Trump administration has made the green card process even more difficult than usual.
“I’ll be honest, as somebody who does this day in and day out, things are narrowing,” Soberalski says. “This administration's not necessarily able to change or close up options altogether, but they are making it difficult on all different kinds of fronts. For example, creating extra burdens for people becoming citizens by requiring extra evidence. Even though they've never been arrested for a crime, they now have to go above and beyond to show their good moral character. So there's a great feeling of things narrowing and becoming more difficult.”
That leaves L with no good options to change her immigration status.
It’s something Soberalski comes across a lot, especially with people L’s age.
“That happens to me, unfortunately, on a regular basis,” Soberalski says. “It's hard to tell somebody. But I like to do it with dignity, face-to-face, and explain what I screen for, what the limitations are under the law, and then I welcome them to return if we do have immigration reform or something in their life changes. But that does mean there's that emotional toll of meeting with people and giving them the stark reality that there is nothing available to them at the moment.”
L has just had to cope with this reality.
“I've never been jealous about my brothers having DACA, or my little brother being a U.S. citizen,” L says. “The way my parents raised me, I'm really a firm believer of, ‘You play the cards you were dealt with.’ And some people have better cards than others, and you kind of just have to make what you can out of it.”
Chapter Four: Navigating higher education
L hasn’t let her immigration status stop her from getting an education, even though it’s made it more complicated.
Going to college is something L is incredibly passionate about. She says it’s her way of rebelling against the country that has made her feel unwanted.
“As an immigrant growing up in the U.S., I think that’s always been with me, and why I am so passionate and motivated when it comes to education, is because no one can take my education away,” L says. “I feel like that’s the one thing that I have for me.”
Undocumented folks, including DACA recipients, don’t qualify for federal student aid, which is how most students at public universities access federal loans, work-study and Pell grants.
“I never got excited about an acceptance letter, as sad as that sounds, because I always knew the biggest challenge would be when it came to paying,” L says.
That means private universities are sometimes a more accessible option for undocumented folks. They have more flexibility with their tuition options and scholarship awards.
In L’s case, she earned a full-ride tuition scholarship for her bachelor’s degree at a private university. Her parents helped pay for any gaps she couldn’t cover, like books and fees.
“I was able to get scholarships, but that required a lot of advocacy,” L says. “I really don't know how I had the energy to do it, but of course, that also makes me think about all the students who don't advocate for themselves.”
It wasn’t an easy transition. L says she’s struggled with her mental health since she was a teenager. But it especially started weighing on her during her undergrad.
“I really struggle with depression, anxiety and PTSD,” L says. “And my depression is high-functioning, so I feel like it adds that similar layer to citizenship — it's like an invisible kind of weight.”
She says being an undocumented student on campus felt isolating.
“It's really hard to relate with your peers on the impending gloom of deportation weighing on you, or thinking about your parents,” L says. “Or just always having this anxiety in the back of your head.”
Eventually, L was able to find help through a therapist at a community health center. She also found a community of undocumented students on campus. They support each other.
Chapter Five: Creating opportunities
College was difficult, but over time, L felt empowered.
She started learning about LatinX history and sociology and began to question America’s legal and societal systems.
“It made me stop thinking that I was asking for more than I deserved,” L says. “And it made me start seeing that I was just scratching the surface of what I could advocate for.”
As L finished up her undergraduate degree, she began to worry about what the future might hold next for her.
One thing was certain — she wanted to do something to support undocumented students like herself in higher education.
Her professor suggested a master's degree.
“That meant a lot for me, because I didn't even think about post-grad,” L says. “I think just the nature of being an immigrant is that I always think in the now — not that I live in the moment, because I feel like I always live in my head and I'm always, like, thinking of what's next. But I just don't like seeing that far ahead when, like, a nine-digit Social Security code is the one thing that's standing in between you and your dreams, it can be really hard.”
L quickly hit a roadblock. The master’s program required her to take on an assistantship, which is a paid position like a teaching assistant. But that required work authorization, which she doesn’t have.
L looked for advice and found a workaround — where instead of getting paid hourly for work, she would be given a stipend to support her research. Instead of an assistantship, it would be called a fellowship.
She pitched the idea to her university.
“I was lucky enough that they converted their assistantship into a fellowship, and that's how I was able to go to grad school, and now be in the first year of my PhD program,” L says. But I would say that using all those skills I learned by being undocumented, like being resourceful and asking questions, has gotten me so far.”
Without that change, she wouldn’t have been able to go beyond a bachelor’s degree.
After that, her university created a fellowship for undocumented undergraduate students, so they have access to the same opportunities as their peers.
That means the path that L created for herself as an undocumented student can help others, too.
“I feel like it was meant to be that I didn't get DACA,” L says. “I was able to ask these questions for future undocumented students, and be able to create resources, knowing what I wasn't able to attain. I don't know. I just want undocumented students to be able to have a good experience in college, or as much of a quote-unquote, normal experience as possible.”
After L earned her master’s degree, she decided to work towards an education-related PhD.
Chapter Six: Looking ahead
There is a possibility that DACA could reopen for new applicants like L. In 2025, a federal court ruled the program could continue in most states, including Wisconsin.
But the government hasn’t started processing new applications yet, and it’s unclear if it will.
At the same time, the Trump administration has arrested and deported some DACA recipients since taking office. Some of those arrests have been because of social media posts the federal government sees as threatening.
L is determined not to let the fear of deportation debilitate her, even though the weight of it has grown with Trump in office.
“This is motivating me, almost in the same sense of what motivated me in the beginning, which was — you think that we can't do all these things and be in these spaces and in these places, but, no,” L says. “We can, and we will be loud. And I think tapping more into being unafraid and unapologetic.”
She’s channeling her determination into the work she’s doing in the first year of her PhD program by highlighting undocumented voices in her research.
She hopes to open a Dreamers' Center in Wisconsin one day, to provide the support for undocumented students and families that she wishes she had.
L doesn’t dwell on not having DACA or a direct path to citizenship. But she recognizes what having legal status could mean for her.
“It means access. That's all citizenship really means to me in the context of America. It’s crazy because if you think about it, it really is a nine-digit code… that’s keeping me from having access to a lot of things,” L says. “It's hard when you grow up hearing people say ‘You're not American,’ and then you internalize it, and now you're very distant from it. I don’t know. It's hard, because I can already hear [some people saying] ‘Why don’t you just go back if you don't like it this much?’ You know what I mean? But I also think you're allowed to criticize the country you love. I just think it needs a lot of help.”
In the past, L has been afraid to think about the future. She knows nothing in life is promised. But she’s trying to let herself dream.
