I have sat across from patients who gripped their prescriptions with uncertainty, unsure of how they would afford their next dose. I have translated for families at free clinics, watching the relief on their faces when they finally understood a doctor’s instructions. I have listened to stories of farmworkers collapsing from heat exhaustion, of mothers forgoing their own medical care so they could afford their children’s, of fathers avoiding hospitals out of fear that seeking help could cost them everything.
These are the everyday realities of many Latinx immigrants in North Carolina — people who work tirelessly to build better lives yet are often met with closed doors when they need care the most. Language barriers, lack of insurance and fear of deportation keep many from seeking medical attention until it is too late. Policies that restrict access to healthcare for undocumented individuals do not stop them from getting sick; they only ensure that their illnesses become crises.
I have seen the consequences firsthand while volunteering at St. Mary’s Health Center and Urban Ministries Open Door Clinic in Raleigh. I have seen patients with uncontrolled diabetes because they couldn’t access a primary care provider, workers with chronic pain from years of backbreaking labor who feared missing work to see a doctor and individuals who delayed seeking help for life-threatening conditions because they were afraid to enter a hospital. These are not isolated cases. They are part of a broader, systemic failure to provide basic human dignity to those who contribute so much to our communities.
The narrative around immigration in this country too often ignores the human cost of these policies. It reduces individuals to statistics, debates and talking points while failing to recognize their struggles and sacrifices. The people I have cared for are not political pawns; they are neighbors, workers, parents and friends. They deserve compassion. They deserve dignity. They deserve healthcare that does not come with fear.
I urge our community to look beyond the rhetoric and see the people — the farmworkers who put food on our tables, the housekeepers who clean our hospitals, the laborers who build our homes. Their health is not just their problem. It is our collective responsibility.
To those in positions of power, I ask: what kind of community do we want to be? Do we want to be a place that turns away the sick and suffering, or one that extends a helping hand? Access to healthcare should not be a privilege determined by status. Instead, it should be a right afforded to all who call this country home.
It is time for us to advocate for policies that protect and uplift immigrant communities, to expand access to culturally competent care, and to recognize that compassion is not a resource in short supply — it is a choice we must make every day.
— Carlos I. Ramos, MS, UNC School of Medicine fourth-year student
