Dreaming Beyond DACA written by Ana Raquel Jimenez
Where are you from?
I was born in Colombia and moved to the United States with my family when I was 8 years old.
How has DACA affected your life (emotionally, spiritually, physically, etc.)?
DACA changed everything for me, but it didn’t erase the hardship. When it was announced in 2012, I had already experienced what it was like to be refused employment and to be let go from a job after disclosing my immigration status. DACA allowed me to work lawfully and that one document, the EAD, opened doors I had previously only dreamed of.
Emotionally, DACA brought a wave of relief but also a new kind of anxiety. I was no longer completely invisible, but I was still extremely vulnerable. Every political shift could threaten my right to work, my right to stay, and my sense of stability. Physically, I carried the weight of that uncertainty in my body through sleepless nights, constant fatigue, and stress-related burnout. Spiritually, I leaned into my faith more than ever. I had to believe that God had a purpose for me, even when policy failed to recognize my humanity.
What are the realities you've had to face as an undocumented person?
The realities are layered and often invisible to those outside our community. I've faced rejection from jobs, scholarships, and academic opportunities because of my immigration status. After high school, I couldn’t apply for FAFSA or most scholarships, I had $0 to my name and no legal way to earn money, I sold cookies at church just to afford my first class at Wright College, and when my mom was laid off from her job with Chicago Public Schools, I had to take on the role of sole breadwinner by working under-the-table jobs just to keep us afloat. I’ve had to make impossible choices: between rent and tuition, between caring for my family and continuing my education. I’ve paused school multiple times, not because I wanted to, but because survival demanded it. I’ve had to explain myself in ways that others never have to: why I can’t travel internationally, why I don’t apply for financial aid, why I can’t “just fix it.” These are the silent burdens of being undocumented. They are exhausting and yet, through it all, I’ve held on to hope.
How has being undocumented shaped your relationships, your work, or your sense of safety and identity?
Being undocumented has deeply shaped how I move through the world. It taught me to be cautious about who I trust, what I share, and how I present myself. But it also made my relationships stronger, more intentional, and rooted in truth. I gravitate toward people who are empathetic and open-hearted, people who see me beyond my immigration status.
In my work, particularly as an immigration paralegal, my status has become a source of empathy and strength. I understand my clients’ fear, because I’ve lived it. I know what it means to wait for a work permit, to fear a policy change, to navigate a complicated legal system in a language you didn’t grow up speaking. My personal experience allows me to advocate with compassion.
How has your intersectionality affected the way you navigate life? (being undocumented and a woman)
Navigating life as an undocumented woman has meant navigating multiple forms of invisibility. As a woman, especially in male-dominated spaces like law or leadership, I’ve had to work twice as hard to be taken seriously. As an undocumented person, I’ve often had to do so without the legal protections or financial resources that others take for granted.
My intersectionality makes me wise because it gives me a perspective that’s deeply rooted in lived experience and it has shaped the way I advocate.
How was your journey in higher education?
My journey in higher education was long, complicated, and beautiful. I started college in 2011 with no financial aid, no work permit, and no roadmap. I paid for my first class by selling cookies at church. I became the sole provider for my family soon after, and school had to take a backseat. With the blessing of DACA in 2012, I finally gained legal work authorization, but a full-time job left no time for school. It wasn’t until 2015 that I saved enough to return. Juggling multiple jobs and keeping up with school led me to take a pause in 2020 due to burnout, which turned out to be a blessing when the pandemic hit. The post-pandemic shift to online learning changed everything. Being able to hop on Zoom for classes while at my workplace removed the burden of having to commute to school for 1.5 hours after work. I also took advantage of the Fresh Start program and undocumented student grants through the IL RISE Act. In 2023, I graduated from Wright College with an Associate’s in Paralegal Studies. I then I transferred to Roosevelt University and earned my Bachelor’s in Paralegal Studies in May 2025. The Dream.US scholarship covered my tuition, and the rest was fueled by faith, community, and unshakable perseverance. My college journey took 14 years, but it taught me everything about grit, gratitude, and growth.
What advice do you have for others navigating higher education?
Take the time you need because there is no deadline on your dreams. Don’t be afraid to start slow, start small, or start late. Apply for all the scholarships, even if you don’t think you are deserving. Ask questions, build relationships with your professors, and find community. As an undocumented student, know that you’re not alone. There are people and programs out there that will support you, but you have to keep looking and keep asking. Don’t let imposter syndrome win. You belong in every classroom you walk into. Your lived experience is valid. Your journey matters. As you enjoy graduation, know that your diploma weights more than just a piece of paper with ink on it because it carries your story and everything you’ve overcome.
How do you take care of yourself during these difficult times?
I’ve learned that rest is a necessity, not a luxury. I journal, I pray, I play music, and I give myself permission to cry when I need to. I try to nourish my spirit, not just my schedule. I surround myself with people who remind me that I’m more than what I produce. During the hardest moments, I remind myself that joy is resistance. Even when the world feels heavy, I try to hold space for laughter, for creativity, for stillness. I also set boundaries and listen to my body when it says "enough." Rest doesn’t mean I’m giving up, but that I’m gathering strength for what’s next.
What are your hopes and dreams for the future?
I want to go to law school and become an attorney. I want to serve, mentor, and build bridges between systems and communities. But beyond titles and careers, I want to live a life of meaning. I want to honor the sacrifices of my parents, the prayers of my ancestors, and the grace of God that has carried me through. I want to be a voice for those still living in silence. And I want to keep dreaming bigger, bolder, and freer.
I also want to have a lawful permanent immigration status. I want to be seen, counted, and heard in the place I now call home. I want to finally have the power to shape the system I wish to help transform.
My dream is not only to belong, but to blaze a path so others know they can belong, too.
Anything else you find meaningful about your story?
My story is not just about personal triumph, but collective resilience. Every step I took was built on the shoulders of those who came before me. Every degree I earn is dedicated to those who haven’t been able to just yet.
