Marvin Morales didn’t sleep the night after the election.
Nervously, he sat on the edge of his living room’s gray leather couch, listening to the soft hum of the ceiling fan. His daughters, 22-year-old Jasmine and 19-year-old Angelina, both students at Florida International University, were fast asleep, as was his wife, Wendy. The entire family are U.S. citizens. Marvin, who was born in Nicaragua, came to the United States as a teenager and became a citizen after being granted political asylum.
Back when he first arrived, Marvin worked odd jobs in construction and landscaping before launching his own carpentry and painting business in Coral Way. He built his reputation through word-of-mouth, praised for his honesty and attention to detail. Over the past 22 years, Coral Way, a working-class neighborhood mostly made up of immigrants, west of downtown Miami, became his home and community. “After all these years, I should feel safe,” he said. “But now, every day feels like a gamble.”
Since the election, he hasn’t just lost sleep. Business has slowed. Clients have canceled or postponed work, and Marvin finds himself triple-checking every address before accepting a new job. From his living room window, he sees the same cracked sidewalk where he used to chat with neighbors. Unless absolutely necessary, he’s stopped going to his local hardware store.
Even families like the Moraleses, who are all legally documented, are feeling increasingly anxious as the newly elected administration’s deportation tactics become more stringent around Coral Way, and the entire nation. Federal immigration officials have ramped up enforcement since the election, reviving many deportation policies from the first Trump administration. Nationwide, workplace sweeps, detainer requests, and door-to-door raids are on the rise. Coral Way and other working-class communities in Miami are particularly affected.
In the three months following the election, deportations from Miami’s ICE field office surged by 38%, according to data from Syracuse University’s TRAC project. The Department of Homeland Security has reactivated the 287(g) program in several Florida counties, enabling local law enforcement to collaborate directly with federal immigration agents.
In one apartment near Coral Gate Park, an undocumented woman hasn’t left her home in over two weeks. “She opens the door only for her children,” a neighbor said. “She won’t even step onto the balcony. She thinks if ICE sees her, it’s over.”
Yoselin Dominguez, a paralegal at the Law Office of Jesús Reyes in Kendall confirmed the growing fear. “Many of our clients are resorting to complete isolation because of the fear of being detained and removed,” she said. She noted that since November 2024, her office has seen a sharp increase in undocumented immigrants seeking legal assistance.
“Many are intimidated to seek help from law enforcement or medical facilities because of the risk of being detained,” she added. “Even in emergencies, people hesitate.”
Paradoxically, fear is also driving more people to seek legal protection. “Actually, people are more likely to reach out now,” Dominguez explained. “They’re terrified of being separated from their families.”
Daily uncertainty and the empowering of local law enforcement has fueled widespread fear and intimidation. “We must stop involving law enforcement in immigration matters. Many people are suffering human rights violations that go unreported because of this fear,” she said
Marvin’s wife, Wendy Lopez, is a U.S. citizen who was born in Honduras and came to the United States in 1999. Their daughters were raised in the same Coral Way house that Marvin worked years to afford.
“People assume we’re safe because we have citizenship or papers,” said Jasmine. “But when your dad’s status is uncertain, nothing feels stable.”
Angelina echoed her sister’s worry. “I see people in my classes who live normal lives. For me, I’m always wondering if my family will still be whole when I get home.”
Anything outside could be a threat. Marvin watches for ICE vans, unfamiliar cars, or simply the sight of officers walking door to door. On weekends, the family used to enjoy the beach. “Now we stay in. We don’t want to draw attention,” Wendy said.
Even neighbors who are documented say they’ve pulled back from public life. “I don’t want to risk being mistaken for someone else,” said one man, a U.S. citizen originally from El Salvador. “They’re not checking carefully. They’re just checking.”
The paralegal echoed this concern. “People forget that most of the undocumented immigrants who come here are hardworking and pay taxes,” she said. “They risk everything for safety and a future.”
The legislation that underlies these deportations was enacted nearly thirty years ago. The Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act (IIRIRA) of 1996 restricted judicial discretion and greatly expanded the list of offenses that could trigger removal. Under the current administration, these tools are being used to their full extent.
The emotional toll of immigration uncertainty weighs heavily on families like the Moraleses. At home, Jasmine grapples with a quiet guilt that builds with each passing day—guilt for being able to live a normal life while her father moves through it in fear. Wendy carries her own burden, trying to shield her daughters from the anxiety that she herself can barely contain.
Their experience isn’t unique. Dominguez, who regularly counsels immigrant families, says the fear is widespread and deeply personal. Many clients are simply trying to survive after fleeing unimaginable violence or persecution, yet remain misunderstood or misrepresented.
Still, Marvin refuses to be driven out. Coral Way is where he built his life, where his daughters were raised, and where his business stands. “They can take my papers,” he said. “But they can’t take my roots.”
