Born in the U.S., Forced Away—A Child’s Fight to Return Home

Across the U.S., deportation is often framed as the final chapter—the ultimate consequence of a high-stakes immigration battle. Politicians fuel fear, making deportation the ultimate punishment, while advocates fighting against it often move on to the next case once a ruling is final. But what’s missing from the conversation is this: for the deported and their families, deportation isn’t the end. It’s the start of an entirely new struggle—one filled with legal roadblocks, emotional upheaval, and the daunting task of rebuilding a life in an unfamiliar or long-forgotten place.

For Maria* and her daughter Amalia*, that struggle became even more complicated. Years ago, Maria was forced to make an impossible choice—one that too many parents facing deportation must make in a matter of moments. Amalia, just two years old at the time, was an American citizen. Maria could have left her behind, ensuring she would grow up in the only country she had ever known. But as a mother, the thought was unbearable.

“I couldn’t let her think that I abandoned her,” Maria said.

And so, with no real options, Maria and her family packed up and left for Mexico—stepping into an uncertain future filled with challenges they never could have imagined

The family’s legal troubles begin

Upon returning, Maria had every intention of Amalia leading as normal as a life as she could, but when she went to register Amalia for school at four years old she hit a wall. On Amalia’s birth certificate, Maria’s name was misspelt. A one-letter difference made by hospital staff who likely didn’t know how to spell her Spanish last name. This simple error was enough for the Mexican government to discard her parental status. They refused to recognize her as Amalia’s legal parent.

This presented Maria with several horrifying realities. Without proof she was her mother and access to official Mexican documents, young Amalia would be barred from attending school and have no identity in Mexico for the next 16 years. While children her age were beginning to learn colours and letters, she was home, limited to the informal homeschooling of her mother when she wasn’t working. Amalia was also barred from health services. While Maria was able to connect her other children who were born in Mexico to government services, Amalia could never share any access. When she was of legal age, she wouldn’t be able to work legally.

Then perhaps the gravest reality was the threat of losing custody of her daughter. If Amalia stepped out of the house and was lost, government officials would have no reason to return her to Maria as they didn’t recognize her as her parent. There would be no way to connect her back to her family. As a result, Amalia had to spend most of her days inside. In a state of legal limbo, she was unable to live like a normal child in the country of her mother but unable to return to the country where she had citizenship.

Over the years, Maria sought legal support to correct the birth certificate error that loomed over her daughter’s life. She ran into more trouble with multiple lawyers taking her money but leaving her empty-handed. At one moment, Maria even faced the threat of arrest from the U.S. consulate for not having identification for her child.

While her mother was supporting her family and trying to give her a normal life, Amalia remained at home. Years of isolation resulted in severe depression, making it hard to leave her room. On top of this, Amalia, who was assigned male at birth, was coming to terms with gender identity and came out as a transgender woman. Her family embraced her identity, but her lack of legal documentation meant that she would be denied any access to gender-affirming care and any mental health resources as she delt with her depression and subsequent suicidal ideation. Leaving the house now carried with it the added risk of harassment for her gender identity.

Years passed and both Amalia and Maria, a single mother, continued in their routines. When Maria was home, she would teach her daughter to read and write in addition to basic math. She still worked a full-time job to provide for her family and continued to seek resources to support her daughter. Amalia cooked and cleaned, eager to support her mother however she could.

The Rhizome Center for Migrants offers renewed hope

Everything changed when Maria came across Tran Dang, Founder and Executive Director of the Rhizome Center for Migrants, the first and only legal aid clinic in Mexico entirely focused on providing post-deportation legal aid services to the returned community and their families.

The Rhizome Center continues to fight until every co-deported U.S. minor in Mexico is documented. Today, more than 200,000 U.S. minors in Mexico do not have the “proper documentation” to register for school. Upon their move to Mexico, they become undocumented.

Even though the attorney they had hired refused to return Amalia’s original birth certificate, Tran offered to take on their case pro bono. She successfully got Amalia registered with the Mexican government so that she could obtain a Mexican birth certificate; a Clave Única de Registro de Población, Spanish for a Unique Population Registry Code, that acts as a national ID number similar to a social security number; and a voter registration card—Amalia’s first government-issued photo ID.

With this, she could return to the U.S. consulate and request her U.S. passport, and her ticket home.  After years of waiting, Amalia was going to finally going to have access to services and applied for a passport to return to the United States.

Despite years of setbacks, it was Maria’s unique tenacity to keep looking for support for her daughter that led the way to the Rhizome Center.

I first heard Maria and Amalia’s story a few weeks ago when I had the opportunity to visit Guadalajara, Mexico for an immigration education program put on by the Rhizome Center. This program gave me a new frame of reference on immigration by connecting with movement leaders, migration experts, human rights lawyers, government officials, and, most importantly, people like Maria and Amalia.

They pair back and forth sharing their perspectives on parts of the story. Maria, with tears in her eyes, expressed the guilt she had for not fixing the birth certificate before leaving the United States and mourned the life her daughter could have had. Amalia shared what it was like to grow up undocumented in Mexico, constantly reassuring her mother of what everyone in that room knew – she couldn’t have known the consequences of a one-letter typo, and it most definitely was not her fault.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom. Maria and Amalia beamed with gratitude for the support offered by Tran and the Rhizome Center. Maria, finally being able to claim her daughter, was able to open the door to Amalia’s dream – returning to the United States. Amalia recently received her passport and after almost 20 years was going to visit family in California where she could start her G.E.D. and work toward her goal of studying psychology to help those who were also struggling with depression.

Today, members of Congress offer mixed messages on who should be a priority for deportation. While many will say that ICE is focusing on detaining and deporting criminals, reports have shown that even citizens have been detained and asked to prove their citizenship. The Trump administration is casting a wide net to make good on their promise of mass deportations, making major policy decisions and signing multiple executive orders on the first day. Congress is following suit by passing harsh immigration enforcement legislation and promising more. For the roughly 11 million undocumented people and the 5.1 million U.S. citizen children with at least one undocumented parent, it could feel like any day their family could be broken apart.

Deportation is the end of the road for those working a case—but it isn’t the end for the people and families that will continue their journey on the other side of the border. As access to legal immigration shrinks, many will attempt to return between ports of entry. For others like Maria’s, they will try to make a new home.  Mexico is already preparing for these deported families through their “México te abraza” program, Spanish for “Mexico embraces you,” which promises immediate work eligibility and access to social programs and pensions for repatriated Mexicans.

Recently, I had the opportunity to catch back up with Amalia and Maria. Amalia had just completed one week in the United States, just days after President Trump signed an executive order on birthright citizenship that would have made her stateless if carried through. She was still settling into her new life in California. Maria remained in Guadalajara. When discussing her daughter’s last day in Guadalajara, Maria described the joy in her daughters’ eyes knowing that her dream was becoming a reality. She claimed her daughter “estaba en la gloria,” a Spanish expression meaning she was beside herself with joy.

Unfortunately for many mixed-status families, return migration often leads to family separation. Amalia described her excitement but also the anxiety of leaving the only home she’d ever known. Amalia told me she initially feared that the United States would be serious, hard to navigate, and full of unsympathetic people. What she found was the opposite. From the airport to the family that took her in, she has come across people every step of the way who have welcomed her with open arms.

“Our fears are always the only thing holding us back but once you see things for yourself, you see what you’ve been missing,” Amalia told me as we wrapped up our conversation. In a time when many legislators have run on a platform of fear, this felt especially relevant. Perhaps they could use the story of two brave women who had every reason to succumb to their fears but instead, dared to hope for a better life, to find a solution rooted in what connects us instead of the fears that divide us.

* names were changed