Murilo Alves was in a physics class at Florida Atlantic University when the Trump administration announced it was ending DACA, the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program. The decision hit hard. Alves had come to the U.S. from Brazil at age three. By 15, he qualified for DACA, which allowed him and his siblings to work legally and avoid deportation. Now 28 and in his final year of medical school at Nova Southeastern University, Alves is still living in two-year windows, unsure of his future.
“Everything changed because of DACA,” Alves said. “But it was supposed to be just a temporary fix. I still don’t know what comes next.”
DACA was introduced by President Barack Obama in 2012 as a stopgap measure, offering two-year renewable work permits and deportation protections to young people brought to the U.S. illegally as children. It does not provide a path to permanent residency or citizenship. There are over half a million DACA recipients in the United States, with many living in South Florida. For years, their legal status has remained in question.
A federal lawsuit filed by Texas and eight Republican-led states argues that programs like DACA impose large financial burdens on states due to increased healthcare and education costs. In 2021, a Texas federal judge ruled the program unlawful, halting new applications but allowing current recipients to renew their status. An appellate court later said a revised version of DACA may be acceptable, prompting the Biden administration to propose new regulations. However, that too remains tied up in court, and no new applicants are being processed.
This ongoing legal uncertainty leaves many Dreamers in a state of high anxiety.
“Your future is in the hands of other people, and that’s frustrating,” said Alves. “All we’ve ever wanted is to contribute to the only home we’ve ever known.”
Alves’s experience is not unique. After graduating from high school in 2015, he attended Broward College with in-state tuition benefits once available to DACA students—an opportunity Florida has since removed. Because undocumented students are ineligible for federal financial aid, Alves paid his tuition out of pocket for two years. Even with these obstacles, he stayed on track, driven by the care he and his family received from volunteer doctors when they couldn’t afford healthcare.
“I saw how communities took care of us,” Alves said. “Now I want to give that back.”
Today, as a medical student treating patients in clinical rotations, Alves connects closely with those who remind him of his own family—undocumented laborers, housekeepers, people often without access to care.
“When I treat a 50-year-old undocumented construction worker, I see my stepdad. When I see a mother cleaning houses, I see my mom,” he said.
Gaby Pacheco, president of TheDream.US and herself formerly undocumented, understands the rollercoaster Dreamers have faced. In 2010, she helped lead a walk from Miami to Washington, D.C., to push for federal immigration reform. That effort helped bring about DACA, but more than a decade later, a permanent solution still hasn’t passed Congress.
“DACA showed the potential that even partial legal status can unlock,” said Pacheco. “But people are still stuck in limbo. It’s exhausting.”
Republican lawmakers, including Miami Congresswoman Maria Elvira Salazar, have floated legislation aimed at resolving Dreamers’ legal status. Her proposed Dignity Act would offer a path to permanent residency for undocumented immigrants who meet criteria like a clean criminal record, employment, and long-term residency. Former President Donald Trump has publicly acknowledged the need to address Dreamers’ status as well.
Despite this bipartisan support, the Dream Act—first introduced in 2001—has never passed. Dreamers now average 32 years old, with some over 40, aging out of the label that once defined them.
Alves keeps all of his past work permits as reminders of the years he’s lived with uncertainty. “They’re sentimental,” he said. “Even my old driver’s licenses—I’ve kept them all.”
While Alves’ mother has since started the process toward legal residency—thanks to sponsorship from his sister who married a U.S. citizen—the fear of family separation still lingers. He remembers his mom’s hesitation to take him to the DMV, the worry during traffic stops, the dread that ICE might show up unexpectedly.
“You think, ‘What if she gets arrested? What if she’s deported?’ It never leaves you,” he said.
For many in South Florida, the debate over DACA is not abstract. It’s about neighbors, classmates, coworkers—the people who live here, work here, and contribute every day with no guaranteed future. Despite widespread agreement that a solution is needed, the political will to pass one remains elusive.
“It’s ironic,” said Pacheco. “This is the one immigration issue both parties agree on. They have the tools to fix it. They just haven’t.”
