LOS ANGELES — Aurora was working as a nurse at a hospital in her home country of Honduras when she decided to leave for good. A mother of two, she yearned for a better future for herself and her young daughters. So in 1990, she went in search of that, making the journey through Mexico into the United States.
She eventually found work in Los Angeles, taking care of older adults in their homes. She bathes, feeds and changes them and sometimes takes them places, like the beauty salon. She often stays with the same clients for years, through good health and bad and, in some cases, until death.
For a while, she did this work without legal status. But then, in late 1998, Hurricane Mitch devastated Honduras. Shortly thereafter, the U.S. granted temporary protected status (TPS) to Hondurans, citing the environmental disaster the hurricane had wrought.
For the first time, Aurora had government permission to live and work in the United States.
"I felt protected," she says in Spanish. NPR agreed not to use Aurora's last name because she now fears being targeted by immigration authorities.
TPS for Hondurans was renewed multiple times over the years. But this year, the Trump administration decided to terminate it, effective Sept. 8.
"Temporary Protected Status was designed to be just that—temporary," said Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem in a statement in July. "It is clear that the Government of Honduras has taken all of the necessary steps to overcome the impacts of Hurricane Mitch, almost 27 years ago. Honduran citizens can safely return home."
The decision is being challenged in court. But on Wednesday, a panel of judges on the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals overturned a lower court ruling, paving the way for the Trump administration to terminate TPS for Hondurans while litigation continues.
With Sept. 8 quickly approaching, Aurora faces a future of uncertainty.
"We don't know what will happen," she says. "We don't know anything."
An end to immigration programs designed to provide temporary refuge
Since returning to office, President Trump has ended a number of programs granting immigrants refuge from unsafe conditions back home, citing national security concerns.
"For decades, TPS has been abused as a de facto amnesty program to allow unvetted aliens to remain in the U.S. indefinitely," Homeland Security Assistant Secretary Tricia McLaughlin wrote in a statement to NPR. "Too often, these programs have been exploited to allow criminal aliens to come to our country and terrorize American citizens."
McLaughlin's statement included photos of Hondurans with TPS who've been convicted of crimes in the U.S., including aggravated assault and a sex offense against a child.
Aurora, who has spent most of her adult life in Los Angeles, wants to convey a different message about the roughly 72,000 Hondurans granted TPS over the years, as well as those from other countries.
"Not all immigrants are criminals," she says. "We are hardworking people earning an honest living."
Few opportunities to gain permanent status
Like so many other noncitizens in the U.S., Aurora wishes she could become a permanent resident or even a citizen. Her union, Service Employees International Union Local 2015, representing roughly half a million long-term care workers in California, has been pushing lawmakers to create a path to citizenship for people like her.
"They give so much. I think they're deserving of us being able to find a system that works for them," says SEIU Local 2015 President Arnulfo De La Cruz.
De La Cruz notes that caregivers represented by the union serve California's lowest-income older adults and people with disabilities — those who qualify for government-funded care.
The union does not track the immigration status of its members, but the long-term care sector relies heavily on immigrants. In a 2023 report, the California Health Care Foundation estimated that close to half of California's direct care workforce — those caring for older adults or disabled people in their homes or in facilities — are immigrants. With a rapidly aging population, California could face a shortage of between 600,000 and 3.2 million care workers by 2030, the report says.
Before the termination of TPS for many immigrants, "we were already in a huge care shortage," says De La Cruz. "There's not enough caregivers to be matched with people who need care."
De La Cruz has heard the argument that immigrants should get in line and wait their turn. He says that it's not that simple.
"It's not an application that you fill out and you get processed," he says, adding that the few pathways that do exist, including through marriage to a U.S. citizen or political asylum, are difficult given the requirements.
De La Cruz is struck recalling that just a few years ago, amid the COVID-19 pandemic, care workers were recognized as essential, even heralded as heroes. The country could not do without them. And now, for at least some of them, the message is: Go home. "To go from that to this … I think, is creating an enormous amount of stress," he says.
Elevated anxiety for the care workforce
Roberto Oronia is feeling that stress, even though he is a U.S. citizen, born in Los Angeles.
"This has infected everybody," he says. "I say infected. It's not affected. It has infected the psyche."
Oronia works as a certified nursing assistant at a nursing home in the San Fernando Valley, alongside a lot of immigrants who, like him, have family members, friends and co-workers who fear getting caught up in Trump's immigration enforcement.
The sweeping immigration raids in Los Angeles this summer remain fresh on everyone's mind. Reports that officers have been detaining people based on their appearance and that legal U.S. residents have been among those arrested have stoked fear that no person of color is safe, Oronia says.
"What's it matter whether I'm born here?" he says. "It's just a matter of your skin color and your last name."
Oronia worries that the anxiety he and other care workers are experiencing could have consequences for the people under their watch.
"When anxiety's elevated, people are nervous, people are stressed, their minds are on other things," he says. "Accidents happen."
Aurora does not want to return to Honduras. Although nearly three decades have passed since Hurricane Mitch, she says her home country is still dangerous, wracked by tremendous poverty, gangs and corruption.
She'd rather take her chances here.
Copyright 2025 NPR
