Crossing Care 1

In this gripping episode of Take Care Time: The Tales and Exhales of Caregivers, we meet Rosa—a mother of two who crosses the southern border seeking safety, only to find herself navigating a new life as an undocumented caregiver. Through a blend of narrative storytelling and real-world insight, we explore what drives immigrants into the heart of America’s caregiving workforce, the challenges they face while awaiting asylum, and the quiet sacrifices made every day in someone else’s home. It’s a story of risk, resilience, and the invisible hands that care for our most vulnerable.

Transcript

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Welcome to Take Care of Time, the Tales and the Exhales of Caregivers. I'm your host, Beverly Nance, and today we begin a new series that takes us beyond borders, geographical, emotional, and deeply personal. Today, I want to begin with some numbers. Numbers that matter, numbers that, quite frankly, the caregiving world can no longer afford to overlook. Okay. Right now nearly one in three direct care workers in the United States is an immigrant, and in home that number climbs even higher 32%. These other people caring for our aging parents are disabled. Children are loved ones who cannot advocate for themselves, and while the labor is invisible, the backbone is unmistakable Women. Women make up 87% of this workforce, and among them more than a quarter, are immigrants. They change diapers, manage, seizures, administer medication and cradle humanity at its most vulnerable hour, often while navigating a language barrier, a cultural shift, and their own trauma. This episode marks the beginning of a new series I'm calling Crossing Care. It's about the caregivers who crossed oceans, deserts and borders to care for families that are not their own. It's about the sacrifices they make, the stories they rarely tell, and the invisible labor that holds so many of our households and our hearts together. And today I wanna introduce you to Rosa. Rosa is not a statistic, she's not a soundbite. She's a mother, she's a fighter, a woman who came to this country, not for a dream, but for safety, for dignity, and for her children. So pour yourself something to drink or grab something to eat. Depending on the day, settle in. This one's gonna stay with you. before Rosa crossed a border, she crossed a threshold of fear, of desperation, and finally of choice. She had lived all her life in the outskirts of Gfa, te gfa, Honduras. Her home was a cramp, cinder blockhouse, nestled into a hillside where Corrugated Roofs shimmered like tin prayers in the sun. Rosa's life was modest, but it was hers. She worked in a community clinic as a janitor, swept the halls where barefoot children clutch their mothers and waited for antibiotics. Her son Mateo 10, loves soccer. Her daughter Luna seven was soft spoken, always scribbling and drawing birds, but the clinic closed after gang violence surged in her area. A neighbor was killed in Crossfire. A note was left under her door. Ra cooperate or leave. She chose to leave. Her brother was already missing. Her children's school had been shut down twice in a month due to gunfire in the street, so she gathered what she could fit in a backpack. Three changes of clothes, her children's birth certificates, one small Spanish language, children's Bible, and a zippered pouch of money that amounted to 74 US dollars. They traveled by bus then on foot. Rosa was not alone. Others, dozens of others had left too. Mothers children, widowers and teenagers walking with blistered feet and strapped hope. The journey through Guatemala and into Mexico was dangerous. The cartel ran much of the route. There were checkpoints, some official many not. Once a man tried to snatch Luna while Rosa napped in an abandoned schoolhouse. She fought him off with nothing but a belt and her body. Another time they shared one can of beans with three other families, but somehow they made it to the southern edge of the United States to a crowded encampment on the Rio Grande. It was there among the sea of strangers and prayers that Rosa asked for asylum and it was there that she would sit and wait. When Rosa was granted temporary entry and allowed to stay in the country pending her asylum hearing, she cried. She was moved into a shelter in Texas. Then through the help of a nonprofit organization relocated to Atlanta, Georgia, a city with a growing Latino population, and an urgent need for care workers. There was no fanfare. No keys to the city. Just a shared apartment with another immigrant mother and her two children. Rosa now had two things, safety and uncertainty. She needed work before Rosa could even begin building a new life in the United States. She had to navigate the long uncertain road of the asylum process. Seeking asylum isn't just a matter of crossing the border and starting fresh. It is an act of hope wrapped in paperwork, interviews, and long waits filled with fear and uncertainty. After arriving, Rosa was required to file her asylum application. Within one year, she underwent a credible fear interview, a critical step that determines whether she had a genuine fear of returning to her home country. Her story, her trauma, her truth, all had to be represented and judged. Then came the waiting for many, including Rosa Asylum decisions can take months or even years during this time. She cannot legally work until she reached the 180 day mark after filling out her application, only then could she apply for a work permit until that permit arrived. She relied on the kindness of strangers under the table, opportunities, and the grit that only a mother protecting her children can summon. For many immigrants like Rosa, the asylum process is not just a legal hurdle. It is a daily exercise in faith, resilience and surviving the in-between. The nonprofit helped connect her with a local caregiving agency that served elderly clients who needed in-home support. Many of the workers were immigrants, quiet, efficient, exhausted. Many of them sent money home to the countries. They hadn't seen in years. Rosa began working part-time for cash caring for a retired teacher named Ms. Evelyn, who had dementia. Rosa didn't know the term in English, but she understood the sadness in Evelyn's son's eyes. She made tea. She helped Ms. Evelyn bathe. She learned to hum the same hymn over and over because Evelyn would only eat when she heard it. Rosa's care was soft. Gentle human and that more than language was what mattered most. Still, she struggled. She couldn't afford daycare, so her kids had to sit quietly in the back of the room while she cleaned or cooked. Mateo. Now 11 would do his homework on the floor of Evelyn's living room. Luna would draw pictures of her mother pushing a wheelchair or pouring soup. They were watching her work and survive. What many didn't see was what Ms. Rosa carried the grief of leaving her home, the guilt of crossing the border, the fear that ice might knock at any moment. She smiled often, but her body ached She hadn't seen a doctor in over a year. She worried her daughter's cough was more than just a cold. She sent money back to Honduras to her mother she was raising her sister's baby. After her sister disappeared, she dreamed of permanent residency of finding a small house with a fence yard and two bedrooms. She taught herself English at night, whispering along with her children's YouTube videos, apple Chair medicine, bedpan, and somehow she kept going. In the quiet suburban homes and busting city apartments, there's a truth. Few speak out loud. Many American families hire immigrant caregivers under the table. It's a hush, hush arrangement. Born from desperation on both sides. Families overwhelmed by the cost of care or limited by the lack of access to formal services, often turn to immigrants, many of whom are undocumented or waiting for work authorization. The caregiver gets paid in cash. No paperwork, no questions, no protections. These women like Rosa are the backbone of households caring for children, aging parents and loved ones with disabilities. They cook meals, change diapers, administer meds, and yet they exist in the shadows. It's a relationship built on trust. But also imbalance. There's no health insurance, no retirement, no safety net. Just the hope of making it through another week of staying below the radar while offering to care for so many families. Just the hope of making it through another week, of staying below the radar while offering the care so many families depend on to survive. Rosa's story is not unique. Thousands of immigrants documented and undocumented make up the invisible backbone of caregiving in America They clean, they comfort, they care, all while fighting their own battles with paperwork, prejudice, and poverty. They do this work, not because it's easy, but because it is possible. And yet there's a deep hypocrisy woven into the fabric of this reality. The same politicians, neighbors, and talking heads who rail against illegal immigration. Are often the ones who quietly hire undocumented workers to clean their homes, wash their children, or care for elderly parents behind closed doors. The lines blur. Morality gets flexible. When convenience is involved, It's easy to chat, build a wall on a Facebook post in the morning, and then pay rosa in cash that same evening because no one else is willing to bathe your mother or stay overnight with your disabled son. It's not just hypocrisy, it's survival dressed in contradiction. Immigrants are scapegoated in the public square and silently dependent on in the private one. And caregivers like Rosa, they know it. They live it every single day. Rosa understands the risk every time she steps outside. She's aware of how fragile her existence is. She watches the news. She hears the rhetoric. She also sees her children sleeping peacefully in a bed that they don't have to share with three cousins. She sees a refrigerator that stays cold, a school that doesn't close because the power went out, or there's a gang outside back home. Her daughter was nearly assaulted walking to the store. Here she walks to class with a backpack and a smile. Rosa doesn't need permission to justify staying. Her justification is survival. Her reason is hope, and even when the fear creeps in, when she wonders if tomorrow might bring ice or illness. She reminds herself a here. At least I have a chance. In the next episode, we'll keep following Rosa's story and her journey of her life in America as a caregiver. While her story reminds us of the strength it takes to care for others, it also reminds us of the cost. The take care time Respite box is here to help you reclaim a moment just for you. Every other month we handpick items that Soothe, restore, and bring a little joy to your caregiving day. From relaxing teas to bath luxuries to motivational tools and relaxing reads. Whether you're a full-time caregiver or balancing care and career, this box is made just for you because you matter too. Subscribe today or gift one to a caregiver in your life@takecaretime.com because rest isn't selfish. It's essential. Take your time, respite box because you matter too. If Rosa's story moved, you share this episode with someone who needs to hear it, another caregiver, a policymaker, or a friend who never realized the role immigrants play in our care system. Your share can open hearts and minds. Do you have a caregiver story that you would like to have told? Please contact us at. podcast@takecaretime.com. We would love to hear from you. Please note that this episode features reenactments and dramatized details. While in most cases the exact verbatim dialogue may not be known, all dramatizations are grounded in thorough research and crafted to honor the stories shared to respect the privacy and confidentiality of the individuals involved names, and some identifying details have been changed. Until next week, take care.