"The trauma of parental separation inflicts profound and lasting wounds on children, manifesting in a generation facing heightened risks of anxiety, depression, and long-term health problems, a consequence that transcends borders and legal status."
The forced separation of children from their parents due to immigration enforcement policies, particularly under the Trump administration, has created a growing mental health crisis among vulnerable youth. This article delves into the devastating, long-term impacts of these separations, examining the psychological toll on children like Damian, Jacob, and the children of Noemi, and exploring the systemic issues that perpetuate this crisis. It highlights how these experiences, often beginning with traumatic journeys and culminating in the sudden removal of a primary caregiver, disrupt crucial developmental stages, leading to severe emotional and behavioral challenges that can persist into adulthood.
The moment 15-year-old Damian Zermeño walked through his door after school, he knew something was terribly wrong. The sounds of his aunt’s quiet sobs from the dining room and the stark absence of his father, who had promised to take him to dinner, painted a chilling picture. Saúl Zermeño, a devoted single father who had raised Damian since he was an infant, had been deported to Mexico that very morning. His routine check-in at an Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) office, a compliance he had maintained for years, ended in his removal from the country he had called home for 36 years. Damian, a U.S. citizen, was suddenly adrift, separated by thousands of miles and a heavily fortified border from his sole caregiver. The previously cheerful 10th grader, unequipped for the sudden burden of self-reliance, found his world reduced to the two-dimensional image of his father on a phone screen. "I thought it wasn’t true," Damian recounted, his voice heavy with the memory. "I just went to my room. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t even want to eat."
Damian’s experience is far from isolated. He is one of an estimated hundreds of thousands of children, a significant majority of whom are U.S. citizens, who have been separated from a parent due to the immigration enforcement policies enacted during the Trump administration. These separations have occurred through deportations or prolonged detentions, often placing parents in facilities far from their families. The children are ripped away from the adults they depend on, sometimes violently, with parents arrested at school drop-off points, within their homes, or even during immigration check-ins where their children were present. Critically, a vast majority of those detained have no criminal convictions; their presence in the U.S. without authorization is typically classified as a civil offense. The abrupt removal of parents plunges these children’s lives into a maelstrom of fear and uncertainty.
The psychological ramifications of these separations are profound and enduring. Therapists, parents, and professionals working with immigrant families report observing a disturbing array of mental health issues in children. Preschoolers exhibit speech delays, elementary school students express suicidal ideations, and teenagers develop such severe anxiety that they are unable to leave their homes. Decades of research consistently underscore the detrimental impact of parental separation on a child’s health and development. The acute stress of losing a primary caregiver triggers a cascade of harmful effects in a child’s brain and body, significantly increasing their vulnerability to mental health conditions such as depression, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Furthermore, this chronic stress can weaken the immune system and lead to developmental delays.
Reverend Tanya Lopez, a pastor at Downey Memorial Christian Church who works with immigrant families through a Los Angeles-area religious leader support organization, poignantly describes the visible toll: "You can just see it in their faces; it’s almost like the light has been dimmed in their eyes." The health risks associated with this prolonged stress response extend well into adulthood. Individuals who experienced parental separation and other traumatic events in childhood are statistically more prone to developing chronic conditions later in life, including heart disease, diabetes, and cancer.
In response to these concerns, the Department of Homeland Security has stated that ICE does not intentionally separate families and that parents are offered the choice to be removed with their children or to designate a trusted person in the U.S. to care for them. However, a report by the Women’s Refugee Commission and Physicians for Human Rights challenges this assertion, finding that many parents are not afforded this choice. The report indicates that ICE frequently fails to inquire about detainees’ children or to implement measures ensuring the safety of those left behind. Saúl Zermeño’s experience corroborates these findings; he stated that ICE officers did not ask about his son or assess Damian’s well-being prior to his deportation.
Damian’s life was irrevocably altered by his father’s deportation. For days, he remained confined to his room, refusing to eat or attend school. His social interactions ceased, and even his favorite video game, "Fears To Fathom," lost its appeal. Upon returning to school a week later, he was overwhelmed by sadness, often crying in class or needing to leave altogether. Even his cherished English class became a source of distress.
Damian and Saúl shared an exceptionally close bond, a connection so strong that family members often referred to them as inseparable. Saúl was more than a father; he was a dedicated caregiver, managing Damian’s medical appointments for his attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), autism, and other health conditions. He prepared meals, styled Damian’s hair, and indulged his son’s preferences for Thai cuisine or boba drinks. Beyond their playful banter and shared pranks, Saúl instilled in Damian a strong work ethic, often bringing him along to construction sites and supply stores. While Damian once found his father’s lectures on responsibility tiresome, he now misses them dearly. "I thank my dad every day for teaching me to be strong before he left," Damian reflects.
Across Los Angeles, 9-year-old Jacob, a shy boy with cropped curly hair and a perpetually serious expression, grappled with the absence of his mother. Clinging to his father’s hand one Saturday in May, he navigated the gritty streets of their neighborhood, his hope for his mother’s release from immigration detention palpable. "If my mom was here, I’d be happy," he confided, his voice tinged with profound sadness. "Right now, I’m not."
Jacob, like many children his age, enjoys video games like "Roblox" and "Street Fighter," and dreams of a future as a police officer, complete with a protective guard dog. However, his journey to the U.S. was fraught with peril, even before his separation from his mother in January. His family fled Colombia in 2024, escaping death threats from a paramilitary group. During their arduous trek, Jacob witnessed unimaginable horrors, including dead bodies in the jungle, endured a kidnapping and armed robbery, saw a rape, and was forced to beg for money. KFF Health News has withheld the family’s real names to protect their pending asylum cases.
Upon arriving in Los Angeles, Jacob suffered from recurring nightmares and an intense fear of solitude. He began to show signs of recovery through school attendance and therapy provided by the school district. However, this fragile peace was shattered when his mother was detained during a routine check-in appointment, with Jacob and his father waiting in the adjacent room. His mother had a pending asylum application and no criminal record. The news of her detention, delivered with the handover of her wallet and cellphone, sent Jacob and his father into a state of despair. "He was terrified," his father recounted, his voice breaking with emotion. "He was crying with rage."
Following his mother’s detention, Jacob’s emotional and behavioral regression was immediate. He lost his appetite, refused to go to school, and when he did attend, he was inconsolable in class. Sleep became elusive, and he exhibited acting-out behaviors, often directing his anger and blame toward his father. "When will my mom come back?" he implored, his young mind struggling to comprehend the injustice. "Why do they have my mom? I miss my mom."
Simultaneously, his father, Andreis, faced his own crisis, attempting to comfort his son while consumed by grief, anxiety, and desperation. He took two weeks off from his laborer job to care for Jacob, but this decision created significant financial strain, sometimes preventing him from funding his wife’s commissary account, which was her lifeline for better food and crucial phone calls. Jacob cherished these calls. He described all the things he missed about his mother: her cooking, their park visits, her taking him for haircuts and to McDonald’s, and attending church together. Above all, he missed the simple comfort of physical closeness. "I would lie down with her, and I’d watch videos with her," he recalled. "My mom would hug me and I’d hug her." In her absence, he sometimes sprayed her perfume on himself, seeking solace in her scent.
After nearly five months at the Adelanto ICE Processing Center, Jacob’s mother was released in May following a habeas corpus petition. Despite this reprieve, the family lives under a constant shadow of fear of detention or deportation. Andreis worries about his own potential detention and the devastating impact it would have on Jacob. He is currently appealing a removal order for himself and his son.
A recent analysis by the Brookings Institution estimates that over 200,000 children, including 145,000 U.S. citizen children, have had at least one parent detained since President Trump’s return to office. Approximately one-third of these children are under the age of six. This number is projected to rise as the federal government significantly increases funding for immigration enforcement, including substantial appropriations from legislation like the GOP’s "One Big Beautiful Bill Act" and a $70 billion appropriation signed by Trump. The report further indicates that more than 4.6 million U.S. citizen children live with a parent at risk of deportation.
Noemi, a Guatemalan mother and asylum seeker, recounted a harrowing incident outside an ICE office north of Los Angeles. Her three children wailed and clung to her as glass from their car, shattered by immigration agents, lay scattered at their feet. Moments earlier, officers had forcibly removed her partner from the vehicle during a routine check-in appointment. While Noemi and her children were inside, agents attempted to separate her from her children, ages 9, 7, and 1, but relented when the children began screaming. Meanwhile, her partner, a Mexican national who had lived in the U.S. for nearly two decades, was sent to the Adelanto ICE detention center. "It was something tragic, something inexplicable that happened that day," Noemi stated, her voice trembling. "It’s something that marks you for your whole life. My family was broken."
The Adelanto ICE Processing Center, a privately operated facility in the Mojave Desert, is the closest immigration detention center to Los Angeles and one of the largest in the country. As of April, it held an average of over 1,700 individuals daily, with an adjacent facility, the Desert View Annex, holding an additional 426. Since her partner’s detention in December, Noemi has observed a profound shift in her children. Her usually cheerful 7-year-old daughter became depressed, refused to eat, and experienced a decline in her academic performance, forgetting basic letters and numbers in both English and Spanish. Both she and her 9-year-old brother struggled with sleep and repeatedly asked if their father’s detention was a consequence of their own misbehavior. "Why is this happening to us?" they questioned. "We’re good. We’re studying." Noemi’s youngest daughter, who had already learned to walk, regressed to crawling for three months, crying out "Pa! Pa!" in her sleep.
Sofia Mendoza, a therapist specializing in immigrant families at a community clinic in Los Angeles County, explains that separated children often experience a unique form of grief. The ongoing existence of the parent, yet their physical absence, makes it difficult for children to achieve closure, potentially disrupting their bond with that parent and their capacity for forming secure relationships in the future. Mendoza notes that many children exhibit extreme anxiety, anger, and fear. Younger children may present with physical symptoms like stomachaches, develop separation anxiety, and revert to earlier behaviors such as bed-wetting. Older children might experience panic attacks, nightmares, and difficulties with concentration. The loss of a caregiver is also linked to an increased risk of suicide and substance use among children.
Norma Gómez, a project manager for the Mixteco Indigena Community Organizing Project in Oxnard, shared the impact of immigration raids on her community. Following last summer’s raids, her 9-year-old daughter refused to attend school for a week and became fearful of leaving her parents, despite their legal residency status. Witnessing her classmates’ distress over detained family members prompted her daughter to request copies of her parents’ residency documents, hoping they would offer protection to her classmates as well.
For Damian, the absence of his father has necessitated a premature transition into adulthood. Living with his aunt, he struggles to adjust to his father’s absence, noting a decline in his grades due to an inability to focus in school. Activities he once enjoyed with his father, such as dining out, now bring him no pleasure. "Fun is over," he states somberly. "It’s time to be an adult right now."
His aunt, Claudia Zermeño, has taken legal guardianship of Damian, caring for him, her two children, and her mother who suffers from neurological issues. This situation has forced Damian to become more self-reliant. He now handles his own laundry, contributes to household chores, and styles his own hair – tasks previously managed by his father. He demonstrates a protective nature towards his aunts, offering hugs and jokes to lift their spirits, consciously masking his own profound sadness to avoid causing them further distress.
Damian receives therapy both in and outside of school, utilizing breathing exercises that offer some relief, though feelings of sadness, worry, and occasional anger persist. "I try my hardest to think, to stay focused," he confides. "But with everything that’s going on, I can’t keep the facade of ‘everything’s normal’ when I feel heartbroken."
Saúl Zermeño, now residing in Guadalajara, Mexico, expresses deep concern for his son’s health. Damian has neurofibromatosis Type 1, a genetic condition that causes tumors to grow on nerve tissue, including one in his head that requires regular medical monitoring to prevent interference with his brain function. He also suffers from epilepsy and was born with a single kidney, limiting his physical activity. Saúl fears Damian may not receive the necessary care without his presence. Claudia, despite her own family responsibilities, is committed to Damian’s well-being, but the burden is immense.
Damian maintains regular contact with his father via video calls and harbors a strong desire to visit him in Mexico. However, obtaining a passport as a minor under 16 without his father present presents significant logistical challenges. Saúl is actively pursuing legal avenues to return to the U.S., a complex and uncertain process.
For now, Damian clings to the hope of his father’s return and strives to embody the man he believes he should become. He is preparing to obtain his driver’s license upon turning 16. His aspirations have shifted from attending college to entering the workforce immediately after high school, enabling him to support his aunts and send financial assistance to his father. He continues to cry, but only in the privacy of his own room.
