When I emigrated from Veracruz, Mexico, to New York at 10 years old, I genuinely thought I would see everyone from my homeland again. I was told our move to the U.S. was going to be temporary, a year or two. But 10 months later, when my great-grandmother passed away, I learned that my immigration status meant I couldn’t go back even to say goodbye or properly mourn.
More than 3,000 miles away, I had to experience my grief alone. My parents were busy working and, even when I was sure they heard me crying myself to sleep, they never said anything. About a year later, my great-grandfather passed away, too. By then, I had the English proficiency to articulate my feelings to my new friends, but I still felt like I couldn’t because doing so would mean explaining why I couldn’t travel back home for his funeral. This grief, known as transnational grief, became overwhelming for me in my middle school years, eventually leading to mental health issues, like depression, anxiety, and an eating disorder, that I am still learning to live with and manage.
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Transnational grief occurs when someone is mourning a loved one's death while living in another country — and it's an anguish many undocumented communities know or will experience at some point. Of the 11 million undocumented immigrants currently living in the U.S., about half a million currently have Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) status, a President Barack Obama-era executive action that protects eligible immigrant youth from deportation and work authorization, including the benefit of requesting a travel permit. Most undocumented immigrants are unable to travel outside of the country, so when a loved one back home is ill or passes away, they have but two choices: stay and continue living the life they have worked hard to build in the U.S. or leave knowing they may never be able to return to the home they created for themselves. With no conclusive immigration reform in sight, transnational grief will continue to be a painful part of the undocumented experience.
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"Most undocumented immigrants are unable to travel outside of the country, so when a loved one back home is ill or passes away, they have but two choices: stay and continue living the life they have worked hard to build in the U.S. or leave knowing they may never be able to return to the home they created for themselves."
Grecia Huesca Dominguez
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“Grief and mourning are already a complicated process that is not linear. The distance that immigration puts between loved ones can complicate the grief of someone’s passing,” Joseline Marin Chacon, an Ecuadorian and formerly undocumented mental health counselor, tells Refinery29 Somos. “We grieve the moments that could have been if the distance was not in place as said moments happen.”
While I have grieved my loved ones who passed away in Mexico alone, I’ve never been isolated in my transnational grief. On a spring morning in 2019, I posted a poem to my Instagram grid titled, “Undocumented People Don’t Go to Funerals” and commuted to work. When I looked at my account hours later, I was overwhelmed by the response of undocumented people. No other poem I had previously posted resonated as much. Because my grief had been just mine for so long, I could not have anticipated that so many other undocumented people would relate to my poem and thank me for putting into words the grief they had been feeling and couldn’t voice.
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In so many ways, this grief and pain live in a liminal space. For undocumented people who haven’t been able to return home, they carry memories that still include people who are no longer there. So when I left the U.S. in 2021 and moved back to Mexico after 21 years, I was afraid of going back to my hometown knowing my deceased loved ones weren’t there anymore. By then, I had also lost my grandfather and my grandmother. When I went to visit my family, I didn’t know how to ask about any of their deaths because, for my family there, those losses weren’t as fresh or present. They were able to mourn and move forward with their lives. But I felt like I had to process all the losses all over again, finally experiencing their absence.
In November 2023, for Día de Muertos, I spent some time at the cemetery where some of my ancestors were buried. There, surrounded by others who came to spend time with loved ones who had passed away, I ate tamales and talked with people about those we’ve lost. This communal moment of mourning and remembering helped heal some of my wounds. And even though I will never get any time back with my loved ones or get back the life I had before grief took over me at such a young age, I feel a bit lighter, something I wish my family and other undocumented people could experience.
“Across cultures and religions, mourning has rituals that are closely tied to the way people move through their grief. When we are not able to engage in those rituals in the way we are accustomed to, it can further alter the process of mourning. The dissonance that this can create can prolong mourning or make acceptance harder to reach,” Chacon says. “Mourning tends to bring family members together to support one another, but for undocumented immigrants, this is not always possible in the same ways. … This can also add a new layer to the grieving process, one where we also have to grieve our traditions and rituals.”
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Here, we speak with other undocumented Latin American migrants about the ways loss and transnational grief have affected them.
Roxana, Mexican
I grieved my maternal grandma before she died. In April of 2022, I requested Advance Parole — a travel permit from the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) that allows certain noncitizens to leave and lawfully return to the U.S. — under humanitarian reasons, making the case that my grandma was sick for the first time since I migrated.
Nothing prepared me to embrace arms that could not recognize me. It was supposed to be our moment, but my grandma didn’t know who I was. I had not wanted to believe that she was showing signs of dementia. Our reunification was short-lived. The last time I saw my grandma alive was in August of 2022. She recognized who I was and cried as she made me promise that I would return to see her soon. I left knowing I probably wouldn’t. She passed away on Friday, January 13, 2023.
USCIS does not work on weekends or federal holidays. I wasn’t able to call and make an emergency Advance Parole appointment until Tuesday. I had my appointment that Wednesday and left by Friday, a week after she passed away. By then, I had already missed her funeral and burial. We watched the funeral and burial through a video call. I felt heartbroken that my mom couldn’t join me.
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"Her death was a reminder that I had already missed so much life and there was no catching up. All I could do was cry and think about the moments that never were and would never be."
Roxana
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I arrived in Mexico in time to be with my family for other ceremonies, and it was then I realized my family in Mexico would never understand our grief. They cried over the memories they had shared with her. I cried about all the time lost. I was angry that being there was still not enough. I was tired of being grateful when I knew we all deserved so much more. Her death was a reminder that I had already missed so much life and there was no catching up. All I could do was cry and think about the moments that never were and would never be. The grief is much deeper than the immediate death. The anger that followed had nowhere to go. Nothing could give me back time. I wanted a life with her, not a funeral.
Sometimes I still think that she is alive; borders kept us separated for so long that my mind cannot comprehend her being gone. She was always far away. I will spend the rest of my life grieving her.
Valeria, Chilean
When I came to the U.S., I knew that going back to my home country wasn't a possibility, so I developed thick skin to be able to cope with the situation. I always avoided the thought of being undocumented so I wouldn't stress. Once I became a mother, I became more sensitive and concerned about my status because of the fear of deportation and wishing my family from Chile could get to know my kids. I've been lucky to have family members come to visit and meet my children.
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"She passed away earlier this year, and my heart will forever ache because she didn't get to meet my children in person. I believe this is the toughest moment in an undocumented person’s life."
Valeria
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My kids are too young to understand my immigration status, and when they ask if we can go to Chile, it makes me sad that I can’t say yes. I'm hopeful that one day my status will change and that my dream of going to Chile as a family will come true.
I'm very open about my emotions with my two daughters, and I like to explain to them why I'm feeling sad. It is difficult to grieve with small children because we are always told that we must be strong for them, but I believe they understand more than what we give them credit for. I want my kids to understand that death is a part of life, even though this was exceptionally difficult when it was my grandmother. She passed away earlier this year, and my heart will forever ache because she didn't get to meet my children in person. I believe this is the toughest moment in an undocumented person’s life.
Irving, Mexican
I was seven years old when I left Mexico and moved to New York. Leaving at such a young age had a big impact on my memories. For a long time, my earliest memories began after coming to the U.S. and everything from my life in Mexico was erased. Both of my parents lost one or both of their parents after leaving home. The grieving process was very strange to me. I didn't feel their loss, which feels horrible to admit. I also felt guilt seeing the sorrow of my cousins, who had spent more time with my grandparents, and I couldn’t feel the same. I felt like I was supposed to grieve my grandparents, but the real grief I experienced was seeing the pain my parents were enduring. My parents couldn't be there to say goodbye to their parents when their time came. It was painful to witness, and I saw a side of my parents that I hadn't seen before then. They were very vulnerable and felt helpless in that situation.
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"For both my mother and father, their parents were their anchors back in Mexico and their reason for one day wanting to return. I am saddened to think of how it will impact them to one day go back and have to process their parents being gone."
irving
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About 20 years after leaving, I was able to return to Mexico, and many of my childhood memories there came back. I now travel back more regularly, and every time I visit, I start to remember new things I hadn't thought about for many years, including moments I shared with loved ones who aren’t there anymore. I often think about my parents, still unable to travel between the U.S. and Mexico, and the fact that their last memories of Mexico include their parents, even though they're no longer there. For both my mother and father, their parents were their anchors back in Mexico and their reason for one day wanting to return. I am saddened to think of how it will impact them to one day go back and have to process their parents being gone.
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