I didn’t expect that one day I’d be scared to check my email.

I’m not afraid of deportation in the dramatic sense. I’ve done everything right — kept my visa status in check, followed the rules, stayed cautious. But being an international student in the United States right now means carrying a quiet, constant weight — of warnings, of what-ifs, of systems that no longer feel as solid as they once did.

At the beginning of the semester, I had a new email from the university. It said that if a visa was suddenly revoked the university wouldn’t be able to intervene. That was it. A quiet disclaimer buried in an inbox shifted how I viewed everything.

Since then, every week, the Office for International Students and Scholars sends a message with updates. The tone is professional, but the effect is unsettling. A weekly reminder that something might change. That nothing is truly settled. That students like me are always one policy away from having everything pulled out from under us.

To be fair, the university is trying. The messages are well-intentioned. MSU has made public statements in support of international students, and I don’t doubt that some people behind the scenes are doing their best to keep us informed.

But for me, that support doesn’t feel personal. It doesn’t feel protective. It feels like information, not reassurance. Like being told where the exits are ‘just in case’ — not being told you’re safe inside.

You start to second-guess things. Can I speak up in class? Could something I post online be misunderstood? Not because you’re trying to cause trouble — but because you don’t know where the line is anymore. And unlike your American classmates, crossing that invisible line could mean getting kicked out of the country.

At Michigan State University, we’ve had more support than most. President Kevin Guskiewicz’s statement made it clear that someone was listening — and his reference to "upholding the legacy" of international engagement showed a deeper kind of commitment. That meant something. It still does. But even with that reassurance, it’s hard to ignore the quiet truth beneath it: that your presence here can still feel conditional — respected, maybe, but not fully secure. Not entirely yours.

The hardest part isn’t the fear of doing something wrong. It’s the realization that doing everything right might not be enough.

There’s no guidebook for this. No office hour where someone can explain exactly how to stay protected. Just vague emails, cautionary advice and the unspoken understanding that, in some ways, you’re on your own.

Sometimes I think about what comes after graduation — whether I want to stay here and work. The truth is, I’m not sure anymore. It’s not because I don’t value the United States. I chose it for a reason, but it’s hard to imagine building a life somewhere when you don’t know if you’ll be allowed to stay long enough to form it.

This isn't about politics or policies. It's about peace of mind. It's about waking up in a place that once felt like a finish line and now feels like a holding pattern.

I came here because I believed in something: that if you worked hard, followed the path and did your part, you’d be OK.

But right now? It’s hard to know what “OK” even means.