This Substack Could Get Me Deported

I love America. But will America love me back?

There’s something deeply unsettling about writing a piece that could get you deported. The reality of that statement doesn’t fully hit until you’re staring at your own words, wondering whether pressing 'publish' could change your life forever. In America 2025, this is what it means to tell the truth.

If you’re here reading this, it’s because you care. You care about truth, about justice, and about a country that lives up to its promises. You’ve seen me play a fearless journalist on TV, but right now, I’m afraid. I’m afraid because I know that telling the truth could put me at risk. I’m afraid because I’ve watched videos of legal immigrants being snatched off the street and wondered if I might be next.

Photo by Colin Lloyd on Unsplash

The headline of this piece is something I’ve been thinking about daily, but it was inspired by Berna León, a visiting fellow at Harvard University, who was born in Spain and is teaching political theory in the US who shared similar fears in a piece for The Guardian. While I was weighing the risks of being honest with you and toying with different drafts of this substack, he published an excellent op-ed and captured it perfectly. He gave me the courage to write one too. Reading León’s op-ed felt like a jolt to the system, not because it was surprising, but because it so accurately captured the precariousness that people like me now face for speaking out.

And before anyone tells us that we are overreacting or that the fears of people like me and León are exaggerated, let me be clear: it’s not paranoia if it’s happening to your neighbors. The difference between anxiety and reality is that one keeps you up at night, while the other shows up at your doorstep. Right now, it feels like both. In recent months, Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has been detaining green card holders and visa-bearing residents with an intensity that feels deliberately punitive. People who followed every rule, paid every fee, and built lives here are learning that those rules only matter until the government decides they’re too outspoken.

Take Mahmoud Khalil. A Columbia University graduate student and lawful permanent resident, Khalil was detained by ICE earlier this month, after advocating for Palestinian rights. Despite having no criminal record, he was taken to the LaSalle Detention Center in Louisiana while his pregnant wife had no idea where he was. Even more recently, there’s Rümeysa Öztürk, a Tufts University doctoral student and Fulbright scholar who was kidnapped in broad daylight. After co-authoring an opinion piece advocating for Palestinian rights, she was detained and threatened with deportation to Turkey. Then there was Canadian entrepreneur Jasmine Mooney who says she was put in chains and detained for two weeks by ICE for two weeks over an administrative visa issue. Or Lewelyn Dixon, a Filipino green card holder who had been living in the US for 50 years, was detained after returning from a family trip. Even some of the world’s foremost experts in fascism have fled the US to be able to write freely. Just this year, three Yale professors, known for their scholarship on authoritarianism, moved to Canada to continue their research without fearing for their safety.

Each story is a reminder that being legal does not always mean being safe. While I enjoy immense privilege as a white woman navigating an immigration system that openly admits to favoring people like me, I can’t ignore how profoundly terrifying it is to feel vulnerable in a place I’ve called home for more than a decade. I know that countless immigrants, especially those who are Black, Brown, undocumented, or come from countries deemed undesirable, face far greater risks and harsher realities than I do. Given the fascist turn this country has taken, I’m forced to confront the uncomfortable truth that even my privilege may not protect me.

When I travel (which I’m afraid too afraid to do right now) I’ve shared my location with my family. I disabled Face ID on my phone. I don’t text anything about the administration, in case it could be used against me. I can’t believe I’m writing these words, and I can’t believe this is my reality. But it is. And by the way, they’re coming for legal immigrants, which means they’ll come for everyone else next, so I strongly urge you to take precautions if you choose to travel.

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I never thought I’d have to worry about being deported. Even when Trump, the most powerful man in the world at the time, blocked me on Twitter in 2017 and right-wing outlets have made me a target, I never imagined that the American president feeling threatened by my words could put my immigration status at risk.

I’ve loved this country for as long as I can remember. Growing up, I didn’t even allow myself to dream of living here because it felt like an impossible fantasy, something that just happened to exceptional and special people, not mortals like me. When I finally received my green card in the mail, I sobbed with gratitude. I can still cry if I think about it long enough. To this day, when I see it tucked inside my passport wallet at the airport, I still get a bit teary-eyed. This country is more than just my home, it’s where I found you, the people who have profoundly shaped me into the person I am.

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I often get asked why I would choose to stay in a country that’s hostile to me. The truth is, I fight for America with everything I have because I believe in her. I’ve never once dreamed of leaving. My family calls it stockholm syndrome, I just call it love.

But now, for the first time, I find myself questioning whether it’s safe to stay. I have to weigh the risks of living here, balancing my desire to speak out against the need to protect myself. I find myself thinking twice about what I say and write here, self-censoring to stay safe in a country that’s becoming more hostile to those who dare to challenge the regime in power. It’s a strange, painful reality, to love a country so deeply while also feeling afraid of it.

And while speaking out always comes with a risk, staying silent feels like a betrayal not just to you, but to myself. So that means that I will keep documenting misogyny, ableism, the rise of oligarchy and weaponized incompetence when I see it. I will even keep reporting on immigration. And yes, that means I will keep roasting powerful men even when they abuse their power to keep me silent.

And just to make it abundantly clear, I love this country because of you. Your support doesn’t just keep me writing, it keeps me safe. If something happens to me, I will need an immigration lawyer. In fact, I’ve been told to get one before something happens. Your subscription helps me afford the insurance I will need and the legal protection I never thought I’d need as a green card holder. While leaving or writing about fluffier topics might be easier, I’m not going anywhere. Your belief in me, your willingness to stand with me, gives me the strength to keep going. I’m not just fighting for myself, I’m fighting for all of us. Thank you for being here with me, for reading, for caring. This fight belongs to all of us.