When Safety Shatters

There are moments when the world around you shifts so suddenly that your body reacts before your mind can catch up. This week was one of those moments.

A woman was shot and killed by ICE in my city.

Since then, I’ve been on edge, not in an abstract way, not as a political observer or policy professional, but as an immigrant woman and a mother. The kind of fear that tightens your chest when you think about stepping outside. The kind that makes you double-check the door, hold your children a little longer, and ask questions you never wanted to ask: Are we safe? Who is safe? Who gets protection, and who doesn’t?

This was not just a headline.
This was a life taken.
A mother removed from her children.
A family shattered in an instant.

As someone who has spent years working in politics and civic life, I am used to analyzing systems, immigration policy, law enforcement authority, jurisdiction, accountability. I am trained to stay informed, to stay engaged, to stay rational. But this moment pierced through that professional armor.

Because awareness does not shield you from grief.
And understanding the system does not make its violence hurt less.

Living With the Weight of Knowing

To be an immigrant is to carry history in your body, stories of survival, displacement, resilience. To be Black in America is to inherit a long memory of state violence and unequal protection. To be both is to live with a quiet calculation that others never have to make: Will my presence be misread? Will my silence be taken as guilt? Will my existence be seen as a threat?

When violence like this happens, it confirms a fear many of us already live with but rarely say out loud: the rules are not the same for everyone.

And as a mother, the grief is deeper. I cannot stop thinking about her children, the unanswered questions, the empty space at the table, the permanent before-and-after this moment will create in their lives. No explanation, no investigation, no statement will ever make that whole.

Where Do We Go From Here?

I don’t have easy answers. But I do know this:

We cannot normalize this.
We cannot rush past grief in the name of productivity.
And we cannot ask impacted communities to “stay calm” when our safety feels conditional.

What we can do is pause, to mourn, to speak, to demand accountability, and to care for one another. We can insist that transparency is not optional. That human life is not collateral damage. That enforcement without humanity is violence, no matter how it is framed.

For me, writing this is part of survival. Naming the fear. Honoring the loss. Refusing to let silence swallow what matters.

Holding Each Other Through the Uncertainty

If you are feeling unsafe, shaken, angry, or numb, you are not weak. You are responding normally to something deeply wrong. Protect your peace where you can. Stay connected to your community. Let yourself grieve without guilt.

And when you are ready, whether through organizing, advocacy, prayer, art, conversation, or quiet resistance, remember that your voice still matters.

This moment hurts because it should.
It hurts because life was stolen.
It hurts because safety should not be a privilege.

I am holding her children in my heart.
I am holding my own children closer.
And I am holding onto the belief that our collective grief can still become a force for change.

Beirut Abafogi is a public policy strategist, nonprofit advisor, and social impact consultant with over a decade of experience working at the intersection of government, philanthropy, and community-driven institutions