Immigration Isn’t My “Beat”; It’s My Origin Story

As a journalist, I sometimes forget how secondary trauma works, the way it manifests in our work and takes shape in our lives, but trauma has a way of worming itself into your brain and shattering any semblance of calm, often when you least expect it.

I was reminded of this recently as I started to see reporting about Immigration Nation, the Netflix documentary series that gave filmmakers unprecedented access to the inner workings of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), the federal agency that oversees immigration enforcement. Reading the coverage about the series made me feel antsy and gave me a sense of dread. I’d click out of a review in the middle of reading it, my hands growing sweaty. When I thought about watching the series, I felt anxious and on the verge of tears. “It’s just a documentary,” I told myself. “I don’t have to watch it.” But I felt guilty for not bearing witness, and I told myself that it might strengthen my understanding of the deportation machine.

Against my better judgement, I tuned in. Within a few minutes of the first episode, I was crying inconsolably, tapping my foot rapidly, feeling my blood pressure rise. When the episode ended, I felt emotionally exhausted. The show is another example of voyeuristic “reporting” that peddles migrants’ trauma and pain to move white Americans to empathy and action. What makes this kind of reporting so enraging is that nothing comes of it. Americans consume it and move on, and migrants are left screaming into the void about the brutality of our immigration system. As a journalist watching, I also felt like I was being gaslit. I’ve spent untold hours being lied to by ICE. The agency has repeatedly told me they don’t do “sweeps” that result in collateral arrests, which is when ICE apprehends undocumented immigrants simply because they were in the area of the agency’s “target.” Collateral arrests are the subject of the first episode in the series. In one scene, we watch one ICE agent gleefully obtain permission to apprehend a group of unrelated men living together in an apartment simply because they are undocumented and the roommates of the one man they were there to detain.

My response to watching Immigration Nation is likely a result of secondary trauma, also known as “vicarious trauma,” the “emotional residue” of regular exposure to trauma. Bay Area psychologist Dr. Tanya Erazo told me that even when someone does not directly experience a psychological trauma, bearing witness to it through someone else's vivid, firsthand account can lead to symptoms similar to posttraumatic stress syndrome. Erazo said it “makes perfect sense” that journalists of color can experience vicarious trauma as a result of reporting on communities they belong to, but was quick to clarify that the symptoms associated with secondary trauma go beyond what is typical.

“There is a difference between having a typical, transitory response to bearing witness to these stories by reporting on them versus having secondary trauma. A common response to hearing these stories is feeling dejected, angry, anxious, numb, or hopeless. It is normal to have these feelings,” Erazo said, noting that if these feelings do not pass and begin interfering with life, secondary trauma may be the cause and journalists should seek help. The psychologist said that therapists of color like her are trained with tools to help journalists of color experiencing trauma, but if therapy is “taboo,” she suggests embracing cultural norms like seeking guidance from informed clergy, medical professionals, or elders.

A recent study shed light on just how prevalent and debilitating secondary trauma can be. According to a 2019 study by journalism professor Natalee Seely, as the frequency and intensity of journalists’ trauma coverage increased, so did the severity of their symptoms associated with post-traumatic stress disorder. The more than 250 journalists who participated in the study said they experienced emotional drain, painful flashbacks, anxiety, depression, and guilt, often turning to alcohol as a coping mechanism.

None of this surprises me. After all, I’ve spent more than a decade holding traumatic stories and witnessing the pain, terror, and fear experienced by immigrant communities. I have covered immigration for the entirety of my adult life, but immigration isn’t just my “beat”; it’s my origin story. As the daughter of a Mexican migrant who entered the U.S. without authorization, I am a direct product of migration. By the time I was born, my father was well on his way to adjusting his status, but the years he spent living as undocumented immigrant fundamentally shaped how I was raised. Members of my family and chosen family remain undocumented, so when I’m professionally reporting on the latest inhumane immigration policy, I’m also personally navigating my role as the family advocate.

While there are organizations like Columbia Journalism School’s Dart Center for Journalism and Trauma that offer free online resources for journalists struggling with mental health issues, much of the reporting that exists about trauma in journalism is aimed at war correspondents. I have yet to come across studies or resources specifically addressing the needs of journalists of color who report on communities they belong to, journalists like myself who find themselves in the middle of a different kind of battle in the United States.

My positionality in the world and the vicarious trauma I experience as a reporter covering immigration deeply affect my mental health and my sense of well-being. As the Trump administration’s “zero tolerance” policy has unfolded, I haven’t been able to hug my niece without thinking of her getting ripped away from me. Around my home, there are photographs of people whose stories haunt me—Claudia Patricia Gómez González, who was shot in the head by a Border Patrol Agent. Samuel Oliver Bruno, a leader in the North Carolina sanctuary movement who was lured out of the safety of his church by federal immigration agencies and apprehended in front of his family. ICE quickly deported Samuel and not long after he arrived in Mexico, he was in a horrendous car accident and sustained life-threatening injuries. I think of Samuel every day.

As a woman of color in Trump’s America and a journalist whose daily reporting is at the intersection of immigration and gender-based violence, there are days when I am so inundated by trauma both personally and professionally that it feels like I’m being enveloped in a circle of violence. These aren’t appropriate things to say in the journalism industry, and I do feel incredible discomfort in sharing this. Of course what I experience as a journalist is nowhere near what the communities I report on experience on any given day, but as part of my work as a movement journalist—a reporter who utilizes journalism in service of liberation—I want to begin practicing radical vulnerability and sharing what it is like to do this work day-in and day-out.

On very long and exhausting work days, my mind drifts back to a memory from childhood. My dad is wearing his janitor uniform and he is stooped over in our cramped, worn kitchen. In those days he worked multiple jobs and was home just long enough to change clothes. He was always tired and on edge. That day he was running late for his second job when he accidentally dropped his coffee cup. He was on his hands and knees picking up the shards when he looked at me, his voice cracking, and said, “I’m not a fucking machine. Everyone treats me like a machine.”

My dad never had the privilege of not being treated like a machine, and I don’t want to make the mistake of acting like one. This work is hard and painful, and I want us to start talking about it.

“As a woman of color in Trump’s America and a journalist whose daily reporting is at the intersection of immigration and gender-based violence, there are days when I am so inundated by trauma both personally and professionally that it feels like I’m being enveloped in a circle of violence”