By Shama Shams, CFRE, published author and nonprofit executive amplifying marginalized voices through storytelling and leadership.

Many nonprofit professionals are immigrants, children of immigrants, or individuals whose identities are deeply shaped by histories of migration and resilience. We carry with us an innate understanding of how immigration policy affects real families, but we also understand fear.

Every day, nonprofit professionals across the country commit themselves to uplifting communities by advocating for justice, supporting families in crisis, and strengthening civic life. We show up to fight inequity and expand opportunity, often driven by our own immigrant roots, multicultural identities, and lived experience. 

Yet today, even as we dedicate ourselves to service, many of us carry a profound and growing fear that we are no longer safe in the spaces where we once felt welcome.

Under current federal immigration enforcement actions—exemplified most sharply by the large-scale immigration operations in Minnesota—that fear has become impossible to ignore. In cities like Minneapolis and Saint Paul, an unprecedented deployment of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents has been described as the “largest immigration enforcement operation ever carried out,” with thousands of arrests and aggressive tactics that have disrupted everyday life, community institutions, and civil society. 

The situation has been traumatic for families, documented and undocumented alike. U.S. citizens have been detained without clear justification, people have been forcibly removed from their homes in freezing temperatures, and at least two Minneapolis community members, Renée Good and Alex Pretti, were fatally shot by federal immigration agents, sparking protests and national outrage. 

For those of us in the nonprofit world, these events are not distant policy debates. They strike at the core of our personal and professional lives. Many nonprofit professionals are immigrants, children of immigrants, or individuals whose identities are deeply shaped by histories of migration and resilience. We carry with us an innate understanding of how immigration policy affects real families, but we also understand fear.

In my own experience, this fear became personal and palpable during the planning of a professional milestone. 

After spending weeks drafting a proposal to lead a session on advancing nonprofit careers as a woman of color, I ultimately felt compelled to withdraw it. Not because my message lacked value, but because the conference was scheduled at a location with confirmed ICE presence. The fear of exposure to aggressive immigration enforcement was not abstract; it was a lived reality that made me question my safety and well-being. 

Professionally, speaking at the conference would have elevated my visibility, credibility, and connection to peers. Yet personally, the fear of travel and exposure to potential harm, simply because of how federal enforcement has been experienced in that state, was too significant to ignore.

This conflict between aspiration and safety is deeply unsettling. It raises a painful question: why are individuals who dedicate their lives to serving others still compelled to fear for their own safety in this country?

The answer is complex, rooted in policy, political rhetoric, and enforcement actions that have amplified fear beyond those directly at risk of deportation. Even documented immigrants and U.S. citizens in mixed-status families report heightened anxiety, and have canceled appointments, avoided daily errands, and withdrawn from public life because the presence of federal agents affects how safe people feel leaving their homes. 

For nonprofit professionals, this fear has real consequences:

• Diminished participation in key professional opportunities, conferences, and collaborative spaces.
• Emotional exhaustion and trauma that travels with us into the workplace and squeezes out the energy we have to support others.
• Distrust in public systems that should support inclusion and equity.
• Community partners and clients are withdrawing from programs due to fear of exposure.

This is not hypothetical. We are witnessing classrooms emptied, events canceled, and community organizations struggling because people are afraid to leave their homes and engage in civic life. 

Our sector, rooted in values of belonging, justice, and dignity, deserves more than mere survival in the face of fear. We deserve to thrive with the confidence that our identities, our service, and our very presence are safe and valued in this country.

The fear many nonprofit professionals feel today is a call to action, not only for policy change but also for community solidarity. It demands that we support one another, amplify the voices silenced by fear, and work toward a society where public service is not overshadowed by the threat of harm.

Sometimes, that action is simple: checking in on a neighbor, standing beside a colleague, or using our privilege to speak up in rooms where others cannot.