The Fear of Not Belonging to the Ground Beneath You
The fear doesn’t always announce itself—it lives in the body as caution.
An Art of Drinking Water reflection · 5 minute read
The fear doesn’t always announce itself.
It lives in the body as caution.
As a pause before answering questions.
As the instinct to keep documents close, stories consistent, emotions contained.
To not be from this land—
or to be treated as if you don’t belong to it—
is to live with a quiet calculation running in the background of your life.
Where you go.
What you say.
Who you trust.
Deportation is a word people use abstractly.
For those who carry it, it is not abstract.
It is the fear of being uprooted without ceremony.
Of a life interrupted mid-sentence.
Of separation that does not ask permission.
It’s knowing that home can be conditional.
That belonging can be revoked by paperwork, politics, or perception.
I learned how to keep my head down.
How to be grateful without asking for more.
How to contribute quietly and not take up too much space.
Because visibility can feel dangerous
when your presence is always being questioned.
There is a particular exhaustion that comes from loving a place
while never being fully claimed by it.
You learn the language.
You follow the rules.
You build a life.
And still, there is the lingering sense
that everything you’ve built could be taken away
by a decision made far from your body.
Families live with this fear together.
Parents carry it for their children.
Children sense it even when it isn’t spoken.
It shows up as caution around authority.
As anxiety during sirens or knocks at the door.
As the unspoken agreement not to draw attention.
People say, If you’ve done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear.
But fear is not always logical.
It is learned.
It is inherited.
It is reinforced by stories of those who disappeared from daily life overnight.
What people don’t always see
is the resilience that grows alongside the fear.
The careful love.
The determination to stay connected.
The way families learn to hold joy tightly because nothing feels guaranteed.
Water taught me something here.
Water does not ask permission to exist.
It crosses borders quietly.
It nourishes wherever it reaches.
It does not belong to one land alone.
Living with the fear of deportation teaches you how precious ordinary days are.
How much courage it takes to plan a future
when stability is not promised.
How strong you become simply by staying.
If you are living with this fear, know this:
Your life is not less valuable because it feels uncertain.
Your presence is not a mistake.
Your longing for safety and belonging is human.
And if you have never had to think about whether the ground beneath you might be taken away, remember this:
Security is not something everyone is given freely.
For some, it is something they protect every day—
quietly, bravely, without applause.
The art of drinking water teaches us this truth:
Belonging is not just about borders.
It is about dignity.
It is about the right to exist without fear.
And until that right is universal,
we owe one another gentleness—
and the courage to see what others are carrying,
even when it is invisible.