For decades, the United States has maintained a framework aimed at protecting unaccompanied migrant children who cross the border alone, offering them a measure of safety and hope. But as migration policies shift and the immigration system faces mounting pressures, the reality for many of these children and young adults has grown far more uncertain—and, in some tragic cases, deadly.
At the heart of the U.S. approach is the Trafficking Victims Protection Act Reauthorization of 2008, which grants unaccompanied minors protections such as transfer to the Office of Refugee Resettlement (ORR), legal screenings for asylum or other relief, and placement in the least restrictive setting possible during immigration proceedings. The ORR, part of the Department of Health and Human Services, was designed to provide temporary care for these children while federal officials searched for safe sponsors, often family members, within the United States.
Yet, as reported by Nonprofit Quarterly, the system has become overwhelmed. Due to shifting migration policies and a backlog in immigration courts, children are now remaining in ORR custody far longer than originally intended. Jennifer Podkul, chief of global policy and advocacy at Kids in Need of Defense (KIND), explained, “ORR was created to provide care and custody for children; it was not intended to be immigrant detention. The idea was to keep a child safe while they go through immigration proceedings, not to punish them or deter other migrants.”
Historically, the goal was to place children with sponsors—typically parents or close relatives—within weeks. This process required sponsors to submit identification, undergo background checks, and prove they could provide a safe home. According to Podkul, “The process once moved relatively quickly, often taking about two weeks.” However, new policy changes have introduced expanded vetting requirements, including additional documentation and, in some cases, DNA testing to confirm biological relationships. “Now the vetting requirements have expanded in ways that are making reunification far more difficult,” Podkul said. As a result, children are spending months in government custody instead of the brief stays the system was designed for.
One of the more controversial changes is the sharing of information about potential sponsors’ immigration status with law enforcement agencies, including U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). Critics warn that this could deter undocumented relatives from coming forward to reunite with children, for fear of deportation. “It can feel like children are being used as bait to identify undocumented sponsors,” Podkul noted. “We’re seeing far fewer children being released to sponsors and more cases where children are referred to immigration enforcement than in the past.”
Extended stays in institutional settings can have devastating psychological effects. Many children have already experienced trauma, violence, or family separation before ever reaching the U.S. border. “Many of these children were already traumatized before they ever arrived in the United States,” Podkul said. “Now they’re sitting in facilities without any sense of when—or if—they’ll be released.” The uncertainty and isolation can lead to what advocates call “detention fatigue.” As Podkul described, “We’re hearing from clients who say that even if their lawyer might win their case, they simply cannot stay in ORR custody any longer.”
The legal landscape adds another layer of challenge. Unlike criminal defendants, immigrants—including children—do not have a guaranteed right to government-appointed legal counsel. While Congress allocates some funding for legal services and nonprofit organizations provide Know Your Rights presentations and legal screenings, representation is far from universal. “Immigration judges are under pressure to move cases forward,” Podkul said. “That means attorneys are scrambling to protect children’s rights.” The stakes couldn’t be higher: these proceedings determine whether a child can remain safely in the U.S. or must return to potentially dangerous conditions in their home country.
For some, the uncertainty stretches on even after they qualify for certain legal protections. Special Immigrant Juvenile status, for example, allows minors who have been abused, abandoned, or neglected to apply for lawful permanent residency. But visa backlogs and shifting policies have left many approved applicants waiting years for stability. “We’re hearing from young people who were told they were safe here, only to have the rug pulled out from under them,” Podkul said. “These minors are at a critical point in their lives. Many want to work and build a future, but policy shifts are leaving them in limbo.”
The situation grows even more precarious when children in ORR custody turn 18 before their cases are resolved. At that point, they may be transferred into the adult immigration enforcement system—often meaning ICE detention or rapid removal. “If their case isn’t resolved, that transition can mean ICE detention or even rapid removal,” Podkul warned. “This adds additional pressure on teenagers already navigating a complicated legal process.” She concluded, “We’re no longer treating these kids like kids.”
The tragic death of Royer Perez-Jimenez, a 19-year-old Mexican migrant, underscores the dangers of this system. According to NPR and the Associated Press, Perez-Jimenez died of presumed suicide on March 16, 2026, in the Glades County Detention Center in Florida, a facility holding ICE detainees. His death marked the 46th reported in ICE custody since President Donald Trump’s administration began in January 2025, and he was the youngest to die in custody since the start of Trump’s second term. The Mexican government condemned the death as “unacceptable” and demanded a prompt and thorough investigation from U.S. authorities.
ICE reported that Perez-Jimenez was found unconscious and unresponsive at 2:34 a.m.; staff attempted CPR and other life-sustaining interventions, but he was pronounced dead at 2:51 a.m. He had been arrested in January 2026 in Volusia County, Florida, on charges of felony impersonation and resisting an officer, and transferred to ICE custody a month later. Curiously, the Volusia County Sheriff’s Office reported no record of Perez-Jimenez under that name in their system.
Florida, known for its strong alignment with Trump administration immigration policies, houses some of the country’s most notorious immigrant detention centers. Reports from detainees have described unsanitary conditions, including worms in food, nonfunctioning toilets, and overflowing sewage. Prolonged detention has become more common during Trump’s current term, partly due to a policy that generally prohibits immigration judges from releasing detainees while their deportation cases wind through overburdened courts.
The immigrant community and advocacy groups have condemned these deaths and the conditions that contribute to them. Carly Pérez Fernández, communications director at Detention Watch Network, stated, “Immigration detention system deprives people of freedom, isolates people away from loved ones, and subjects people to abysmal conditions.”
In response to these mounting challenges, nonprofit organizations have stepped up their advocacy efforts. Legal advocacy groups have filed impact litigation, submitted Freedom of Information Act requests, and pushed Congress to strengthen oversight of the child welfare system for migrant youth. Some are working to expand universal representation programs to ensure every child facing removal proceedings has access to an immigration lawyer. “Universal representation campaigns are critical,” Podkul said. “Every child should have access to legal counsel.”
Yet, as Podkul emphasized, the broader concern is that immigration enforcement priorities are reshaping what was meant to be a child-focused system. “We’re no longer treating these kids like kids. We have clear standards for how children should be treated. The question is why those standards aren’t being followed—and this is where nonprofits step in.”
As the debate over immigration continues, the stories of children and young adults caught in the system serve as a stark reminder of the human cost of policy decisions—costs measured not just in statistics, but in lives and futures forever changed.