One Terrifying Moment

I came across this story in the Ann Friedman Weekly newsletter, and she’d seen it in La Cuenta, which tells the stories of undocumented individuals across the US. But Fiama first told her story in October last year, at PLAN’s fourth annual Immigrant Storytelling Show: En Nuestras Propias Palabras. I love the story’s quiet power, driven by Fiama’s determination and her realisation that a traumatic experience could actually help deliver the stability she wants for herself and her family.

I want to tell you about the time when fear didn't come from the gun pointed at me, it came from my immigration status.

I was 22 years old, working at a Cricket store in Tempe. It was already dark outside, and I was behind the counter finishing some work, when a man walked in wearing a black hoodie. I smiled politely and greeted him, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled out a gun and told me to open the register.

My heart dropped. My hands were shaking so hard that I could barely move. Without thinking, I nervously asked,

“Do you want the coins too?”

At the time it wasn’t funny, I was terrified. But looking back, I realized that it was my fear trying to protect me, using humor to survive the moment.

Even though I had DACA, I was still undocumented, and my biggest fear wasn’t the man with the gun, it was what would happen after. I kept thinking about my baby, who was only a year old, and how everything could affect both of us.

Still, I knew I had to do the right thing. So after the robber left, I took a deep breath and dialed 911.

Within minutes, six police cars surrounded the store, red and blue lights flashing through the glass. Officers rushed in, checking every corner. Officer Martinez approached me. I remember staring at the square body cam on his chest, my mind spinning. What if they know I’m undocumented? What if this call ruins everything?

Then I saw his name, Martinez. A hispanic last name, one that looked like mine, one that sounded like home. In that moment, when I felt like an outsider, like a criminal for not being a citizen, that simple name grounded me. It reminded me that even in fear, I still belonged here.

He spoke firmly but gently, “You’re okay now. Look at me and answer my questions and take a big breath. Remember, you’re safe.”

Those words and that name meant everything.

After everything ended, I remember closing the store, calling my boss, and driving home. A 30 minute drive turned into an hour because I was too scared to take the main roads. So I took an alternative, driving slowly, my hands trembling on the steering wheel. The world felt quiet, but my head was loud. I could still hear the officers’ radios and the robber’s voice echoing.

The next day, I went back to work but I wasn’t the same. Every time the door opened, I flinched. Every man in a hoodie made my heart race. The police lights from that night still flashed in my mind bright, silent, and overwhelming. My hands would go cold, my face hot, my body felt light, like if I gave in to this fear, I could just vanish.

It was my first job as a manager, and even though I loved my position, I was terrified to work at that location again. I asked to be relocated to another Cricket.

A day later, a detective called to tell me they’d arrested someone matching the description I had given.

They came to my new store, opened a white binder, and showed me ten faces. Without even thinking, my eyes went straight to one.

“That’s him,” I pointed.

The detective nodded. “Thank you. That’s all we needed.”

For two years, I kept getting letters from the court with updates, postponed hearings, reschedules, and delays. Every time I saw that envelope, I felt fear all over again. Finally, I received one that said I could be in the courtroom to see his sentencing. I decided not to go. Turns out, he’d been convicted 25 years for multiple charges, not just mine.

A few weeks after that, while renewing my DACA, someone told me that I might qualify for a U-Visa because I was the victim of a violent crime. That moment changed everything. For the first time, I felt like there was real hope not just for my safety, but for my stability.

That’s when I met Rekha, my attorney, who helped me begin this long process. Almost 6 years later, I received my deferred action, and now I’m just a few years away from having my U-Visa approved. What started as one of the scariest nights of my life became the reason I finally found a path toward peace and protection.

Yes, fear is something I still carry with me but it no longer controls me like it did that day.

Even though this experience wasn’t good, I never let fear win. I kept showing up. I worked harder. Today, I’m proud to say I manage one of the top Cricket stores in the area. I became the kind of leader the company needs, one who leads with empathy, courage, and compassion.

That experience taught me to believe that I, an immigrant, deserve safety and justice just like anyone else.

I invite you to take action, to see immigrants as people, not papers. To understand that strength doesn’t come from having no fear, but from facing it and rising above it.

Because sometimes, all it takes is one terrifying moment to remind you how powerful you really are.

La Cuenta is an ongoing exploration of the costs incurred by roughly 11 million individuals in the United States that are labeled as undocumented.

Fiama is the eldest daughter of immigrants. She immigrated from Veracruz to the US due to medical necessity when she was nine years old. She is a loving mother and wife, and she is fighting for the release of her Salvadoran husband, who is currently being detained.

Veeva Gomez is a Colombian illustrator focused on editorial storytelling, combining bold colour, cinematic composition and surreal visual metaphor. Her work explores human emotion, modern life and the quiet tensions of everyday experience. You can see more of her illustrations on Instagram.

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