Growing up in El Salvador, life seemed good. My dad owned several buses in the local transportation system, and my lifestyle was complete with a beautiful house and a private school education.

As I got older, however, I learned our peaceful existence was only possible because my dad paid a weekly fee to local gangs. If he didn’t, they threatened to kidnap my brother and me. By the time I was 13, my dad could no longer cover their rising demands. Gang members started following us to and from school. Every morning, the local news issued an update on the rising number of gang murders. We worried our family could be next.

Without family ties or high-skilled jobs, our family had no legal pathway to immigrate. But we were scared and desperate, so we left everything behind and came anyway. In 2001, then-President George W. Bush eventually granted more than 250,000 Salvadorans Temporary Protected Status (TPS), which allows immigrants fleeing civil unrest and natural disasters to live and work legally in the U.S. We felt incredibly lucky to qualify. But when the Trump administration announced in 2018 it would end TPS renewals for immigrants from four countries, including my native El Salvador, our fear returned.

That’s why I’m so glad the U.S. House of Representatives recently passed the Dream and Promise Act, which would put TPS holders on a path to citizenship. These individuals have lived legally in the U.S. for more than two decades. Their status may be designated as temporary, but six administrations have allowed nearly 412,000 immigrants like my family to stay. They know we are invaluable to American employers, have purchased homes and raised 270,000 American-born children. Forcing us to abandon our lives here is incredibly cruel – not to mention bad for the economy. That’s why we need the Senate, including Sens. Mitch McConnell and Rand Paul of Kentucky, to support this legislation now.

I remember our first night in America. My father gathered us together in the tiny basement apartment we’d rented in New Jersey and said, “I know this isn’t what you’re used to, but we’re here together and we’re safe.” He wanted to assure us that everything we’d been forced to sacrifice would be worth it, and he worked hard to make sure that was true. He landed a job driving buses, and my mom started working at a factory. My brother and I enrolled in school and learned English. We moved to Kentucky when I was 16.

Because I had TPS and graduated from a Kentucky high school, I was eligible for in-state tuition at Western Kentucky University, where I earned my bachelor’s in 2013 and master’s in education in student affairs. Today, I work in higher education, recruiting students to pursue teaching degrees. It’s crucial work. Kentucky had nearly 5,000 unfilled teaching positions in 2019, and the number of students pursuing a teaching degree declined by 13% during the previous five-year period.

My brother has also become successful. He purchased a semi truck and started his own shipping business. He is one of the 10.5% of TPS holders creating jobs and services as an entrepreneur, according to New American Economy. In fact, TPS holders start businesses at higher rates than our U.S.-born peers.

Nationally, nearly 96% of TPS holders are employed and generate $10.9 billion in income, according to NAE. They pay $2.5 billion in taxes and hold $8.5 billion in spending power to invest back into our local communities. In fact, eliminating them from the workforce would actually cost the U.S. $45.2 billion in GDP over a decade. We can’t afford that, particularly as the nation recovers from the pandemic.

We are grateful for the protections the U.S. has granted the country’s TPS holders. But after all this time, it’s terrible to saddle so many established people with the threat of deportation. I’m lucky to have married an American and earned my citizenship in 2014. But though I was able to sponsor my parents’ green cards, I’ve been unable to help my brother. He still lives every day in fear, wondering if and when he’ll be forcibly separated from his home and American kids.

I still remember the sense of accomplishment I felt during my naturalization ceremony at Mammoth Cave. The moment was a celebration, not just for me, but for my parents and all they sacrificed for our safety. After two decades of legally living and building lives here, my brother and so many others like him, deserve the same reprieve. So please, call on Congress to pass the Dream and Promise Act.

– Julia Rivas works in higher education recruitment and volunteers with HOPE (Hispanic Organization for the Promotion of Education). She lives in Bowling Green.