For undocumented students, graduating college is more than a milestone—it’s a fight to be seen, heard, and valued.
By Archangel Apolonio, Staff Reporter
As an undocumented student about to graduate from college, I can’t help but feel a mix of pride and fear. I’ve spent years working toward this moment. Like my classmates, I’ve pulled all-nighters, passed difficult exams, and given everything I had. But unlike them, I can’t simply move forward into a career. I don’t have the luxury to do so.
While others talk about landing jobs and planning their futures, many undocumented students wonder what happens next. We earned the same degrees, but we’re not given the same access. The system tells us to chase the “American Dream,” but then slams the door the moment we try to open it.
Graduating as an undocumented student means carrying more than just textbooks—it means carrying the weight of fear, uncertainty, and exclusion. It means dealing with ICE threats, legal limbo, and a government that debates our worth as though it were a trending topic on social media.
For many of us, school is all we know. It’s our safe space and our full-time focus—a place where we’ve tried to prove to ourselves and to others that we are enough. That we belong. That we are more than our status. And yet, even after all the work and sacrifice, we’re left asking, “Now what?”
The truth is, undocumented students don’t need pity—we need policy change. We need pathways to stay, work, and thrive. We’ve already proven our resilience. What we deserve now is a future.
We deserve to feel proud of what we’ve accomplished—but instead, we graduate into silence, into questions, into fear. Some of us hide our status because we’re tired of the stigma, while others speak up, knowing that our truth could make us a target. Either way, we carry the pressure of having to succeed not just for ourselves, but for our families, our communities, and the generations before us who never had this chance.
Some of us are the first in our families to graduate from college. That moment we walk across the stage isn’t just for us, but for every sacrifice our parents made. It’s for every meal they skipped to pay our tuition, for every form they couldn’t fill out because it was in another language or designed to exclude them. Our degrees are more than just a piece of paper; they are a symbol of resistance, a declaration that we exist and we matter.
But how long can we carry this weight without enough support? We are told to work harder, be grateful, stay quiet—and still, we’re met with rejection. Applications ask for Social Security numbers. Jobs say, “must be authorized to work in the U.S.” Internships we are qualified for are off-limits. The same system that allowed us to study now stands in the way of letting us live.
And it’s not just about jobs—it’s about mental health. Many undocumented students live with chronic stress, anxiety, and depression because we’re constantly anticipating bad news. Will DACA survive the courts? Will new legislation ever come? Will I have to leave the only country I’ve ever called home? These questions don’t go away after graduation—they get louder.
We need allies who don’t just say they care—we need action. Professors, career counselors, university presidents: your support doesn’t end at Commencement. Fight for more paid fellowships and internships open to undocumented graduates. Push for more off-campus legal aid. Educate your departments about inclusive hiring practices. We should not have to keep educating the people who are supposed to be guiding us.
To lawmakers: stop using undocumented students as bargaining chips. We are not talking points—we are people. We don’t need another speech about “Dreamers.” We need solutions for all undocumented students, with or without DACA. We are not temporary. We are not illegal. We are already here—contributing, working, learning, surviving.
To my fellow undocumented graduates: I see you. I am you. Your path may not be linear, but your worth is not measured by how fast you get a job or how perfect your story sounds. It’s okay if you do not have it all figured out. Just surviving and graduating is radical in a system designed to exclude us. You are already more than enough.
This country says it values education. It’s time it proves that by valuing us, too.