In March, I went on a three-hour ride-along with a U.S. Border Patrol agent around the San Diego–Tijuana border.

On Monday, the day I wrote this column, I turned 32. When I graduated from college years ago, the dean of my journalism school gave a speech that I’ve mostly forgotten. But I still remember one statement: “People think they’re paying journalists for their objectivity. That’s not true. They’re paying them for their judgment.”

I first met Keanakay Scott this past January at a transitional housing shelter in Los Angeles. At the time, she had just scored a two-bedroom apartment in South Central LA through Section 8, a program that subsidizes housing for low-income tenants. She was giddy with excitement: “It’s weird! I haven’t had my own place in ... in ... in forever!” 

My first-ever visit to a jail-like setting took place during an October 2015 trip to Thailand, where I met with Christian Pakistani refugees.

There, at an immigration detention center in Bangkok, I met Arbab. At the time, he was 21, with soft brown eyes and an innocent smile. His dark, curly bangs and beard covered his face because he couldn’t cut them while in detention. He’d been stuck in a cell for more than six months, with no contact with his family and no money to pay bail. 

When Keanakay Scott moved into her first apartment after aging out of foster care, nobody had taught her that she needed to pay rent every month. She assumed her first check would cover that expense. Less than two months later, she received an eviction notice.

In February 2018, the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) quietly changed its mission statement, removing a description of the United States as “a nation of immigrants.” The change reflected a shift in our government’s philosophy regarding immigration from one of welcoming strangers to that of border protection.

Lately I’ve found myself receiving numerous cries for comfort from my friends. They are cries of anxiety, grief, depression, loneliness, and suffering. As I struggle to respond to them, I am reminded once again that nothing is harder—and yet nothing is easier—than caring for someone in pain.