Laura stopped leaving her home weeks before she gave birth. She lived outside of Minneapolis, where many people had been taken by immigration officials. She thought of mothers separated from babies, of children taken to detention facilities.
By the time she went into labor, her stress was so intense that her body had stopped producing sufficient oxytocin, her doctors told her. The hormone is critical for labor and breastfeeding. Low oxytocin levels are linked with postpartum depression and severe depression.
Her contractions began in the middle of the night in January; without many options, she called her doula. Her father had been deported years ago. Her boyfriend had been staying with his mother since his dad was detained weeks before. They worried that if he left to drive Laura, he might be taken, too.
On January 14, Laura, an immigrant from Honduras with an application for asylum, became a mom. Her boyfriend, driven by her doula, joined Laura at the hospital after she gave birth, where for at least one day, the three of them could be together. She rested while he met his new daughter, a healthy 7-pound girl.
It felt simple: “He was very happy,” Laura said.
Laura, whose last name has been withheld because she fears being targeted by immigration authorities, would have loved to see other friends and family. But from the hospital bed, she worried about the consequences they could face — if coming to meet the baby might mean risking detention, or even deportation. She had no other visitors.
Leaving the hospital as a first-time mom can feel like liberation, escaping the solitude of a hospital room and venturing into the world. But Laura traded one form of isolation for another: her one-bedroom apartment, where visitors were rare.
“I was all alone with the baby, and no one could come see me because of immigration,” Laura said.
That fear has infected Laura’s whole community — isolating her from many of the people who, in a different time, might have helped the 24-year-old adjust to her new life as a mom. That includes her boyfriend, who has hardly seen his daughter since that hospital visit.
I am afraid that one day they will get me, and I will leave the baby alone.”
Laura
Even as the federal government’s Minnesota presence is waning, Laura remains afraid of what could happen if immigration officials take her away from her girl.
“I am afraid that one day they will get me, and I will leave the baby alone,” she said in Spanish.
The Trump administration’s sweeping immigration raids across the country — exemplified by its monthslong campaign in Minnesota — sent many immigrants inside, deterring them from seeking medical care, going to work or school, or even visiting friends or family members. Federal data suggests that detention rates are slowing, and Markwayne Mullin, the new secretary for Homeland Security, suggested he would steer the department away from sustained public raids to more targeted enforcement. Still, life has not returned to normal for many.
Isolation can allow chronic illnesses to worsen, leave people without income, and foster loneliness that can elevate the risk of depression or even post-traumatic stress disorder. But the consequences are particularly acute for people who have just given birth.
One-third of maternal deaths occur in the first year postpartum. Most are preventable, the result of untreated physical complications or severe postpartum depression. Research suggests that immigrants are less likely to have adequate postpartum health care due to limited insurance coverage. Latinas are twice as likely as White women to develop postpartum depression, and less likely to get treatment.
The first weeks and months after giving birth are challenging under the best of circumstances. Almost all postpartum people experience the “baby blues,” a brief depressive period caused by hormonal shifts after giving birth. There is sleep deprivation, late nights of feeding, pumping and figuring out infant sleep. New moms in particular often report feelings of loneliness and isolation.
And there is the physical toll. Recovery can take weeks, especially with a Cesarean section, and people can experience life-threatening conditions such as postpartum hemorrhage, preeclampsia or postpartum infection.
Doctors say newly postpartum people need support: access to medical care when needed, sleep whenever possible, and critically, the ability to rely on friends and family for help.
But immigration crackdowns have made that impossible for Laura.
“Taking a step back and thinking about postpartum, it’s one of the highest risk times for a patient that just delivered and where most of the complications can happen,” said Dr. Jesus Ruiz, a family medicine physician in North Carolina who has studied the health and wellbeing of postpartum immigrants. “It’s already difficult enough being in the postpartum state. Having a newborn, people are more prone to depression. If they are depressed, we’ll miss it.”
When Ruiz’s home state was the subject of sweeping immigration raids last November, patients increasingly skipped their postpartum visits, he said. Many expressed nervousness about going outside, even for routine errands. He is worried about the longer-term consequences for not only his patients, but also their babies, who typically need regular follow-ups with a doctor, and who can benefit in their early months of life with visits from other family members.
Eight days before her scheduled C-section, Reina’s husband was detained. She was in the kitchen of her Minneapolis-area apartment, cooking, when the phone lit up with a call from her mother-in-law. “They arrested him,” she told her, urging Reina to be strong.
For days, Reina, who has a pending asylum application and requested her last name be withheld, could barely eat or sleep, let alone care for her other three children, the oldest of whom is 14. She could only eat by reminding herself: Do it for the baby. When she arrived at the hospital on January 20, she was dehydrated and had low blood pressure. She was grateful her infant son was healthy.
After they arrived home from the hospital, Reina spent close to two weeks not leaving her home, relying only on her other children for help caring for her newborn, before a lawyer was able to secure her husband’s release.
The first night her husband came home, she said, he didn’t sleep all night — instead, he just kept looking at their baby, carrying him around.
“He said, ‘I am afraid to sleep, because I can’t believe he is here,’” she said in Spanish.
Reina’s health care provider did at-home check-ups for her and the baby. Weeks after giving birth, Reina still had low blood pressure, headaches and pain in her neck and shoulders. She wasn’t sure if it was residual complications from her delivery, or because she was so stressed about what might happen if anyone in her family goes out at the wrong time.
Even now as the stress is abating — as she is now taking her baby on small trips outside — she is still nervous about encountering immigration officials.
“I’m still afraid, but it’s not the same as it was,” she said at the end of March.
Though fewer immigration officials are on the streets of Minneapolis, “No one quite believes it’s over,” said Kate Percuoco, an early childhood educator in the city who cares for children from immigrant families. Families are still staying home from work, skipping appointments at doctors’ offices and nervous even about venturing to child care facilities like hers.
Four mothers with children in her program either were pregnant or gave birth over the course of the federal government’s increased presence in Minnesota. All expressed concern that going outside could put their families at risk. Percuoco is doing her best to help. She’s been scouring Facebook “Buy Nothing” groups for anything that might help: diapers, a crib, a car seat, a bath tub.
“The impact of this on people’s sense of safety is going to last a really really long time. Several people have commented to me, ‘I don’t want to live like this. I don’t want to live in fear. This is not a life to constantly worry that I’m going to be separated from my children,’” she said. “That sense of safety has been taken from people.”
Postpartum medical care can be critical. But it’s difficult to come by for women who, unlike Laura or Reina, don’t have someone to visit them at home. In early March, Percuoco drove one new mom to an appointment — it was the woman’s first time leaving the house since giving birth in December. The woman had been having chest pains and difficulty breathing.
Another postpartum woman Percuoco helped had high blood pressure but was too afraid to see a doctor. Instead, she used her husband’s old medication until Percuoco got her in touch with a nurse.
Dr. Rose Molina, an OBGYN in Boston and professor at Harvard Medical School who treats a large number of immigrants, said she, too, has seen fewer postpartum patients in recent months, with cancellation rates fluctuating based on when someone’s neighborhood may have experienced an immigration raid.
When she cares for postpartum patients, particularly those who are immigrants, she said, she frequently is asked about how soon they can return to work. Her patients are worried about making ends meet — earning enough money to care for their children.
We have become practically trapped by four walls. Lately, I feel alone.”
Laura
“That is who they are: strong, resilient women, and all they can think about is, ‘I need to go back to work so I can pay for rent, pay for food, all these things in my life,’” she said.
After Laura left the hospital, she stayed briefly with a few friends, a chance to have a little extra company and support. There were immigration officials outside. But as long as they didn’t leave, she said, they were safe enough. She had people to rely on.
Now, back home in her one-bedroom apartment, “We have become practically trapped by four walls,” she said one afternoon, holding her daughter. It’s just the two of them.
“Lately, I feel alone.”
Her daughter sleeps in a bassinet next to her bed. On a routine morning, Laura wakes up, and then her daughter does. She feeds her baby. She cleans up a bit and cooks with groceries she has delivered. In the afternoons, she sits on her couch, holding her girl while encouraging her to nap on her lap.
Their days are confined to the few rooms in her home: the kitchen space, dining table, the couch and her bedroom. There’s a small balcony; on sunny days, light pours in from the windows. It’s the rare connection she has to the outside world. Even taking out the trash feels dangerous, Laura said..
She’s been using her savings accumulated through her job cleaning at construction sites to pay for groceries. Her partner sends money to help with bills. She has neighbors who would sometimes come by with food or who bring diapers.
One of her friends, one who has papers, is able to visit her on occasion. They eat together, and they talk about her baby, who now weighs more than 12 pounds. But they also discuss the presence of immigration officials. They wonder when things might be normal, when it might be safe again.
She feels stressed all the time — sometimes, maybe, depressed, she added.
She’s made contingency plans, she said, identifying a friend who could care for her daughter if she is deported.
Most days she spends alone with her child, whose soft toys lie strewn on the couch, by the table, on the floor.
On the best days, she said, “I feel happy. I have my baby.”
Things are changing — but slowly. At the end of March, she finally went for her first doctor’s appointment outside of her apartment. Her daughter’s father has visited three times, but only at night. “It’s less dangerous,” she said.
Eventually, she said, she hopes things will feel safe enough that she can return to work. Someday, she said, she’s sure that will happen. She’s just not sure when.
She and her daughter are beginning to better understand each other. And she has to be strong, she said — her girl needs her to be.
Chabeli Carrazana contributed reporting.