When Fear is the Gatekeeper: A Trauma-Informed Reflection on Borders, Devices, and Dignity

“Fear dressed as safety is still fear. And fear, left unchecked, becomes violence.” — Mary Coughlin

How far have we fallen?

When did we decide that fear should be our gatekeeper? That stripping someone of their phone, their data, their dignity, is acceptable in the name of "security"? When did we become so collectively dysregulated that we forgot how to look into another human being’s eyes and see a person—not a threat, not a risk, not a profile to be flagged?

I read the stories.

A scientist denied entry for criticizing a government.
A green card holder violently interrogated and humiliated at the airport he’s used for years.
Musicians pulled over and questioned about loyalty.
Phones searched. Laptops cloned.
College students protesting injustice, dragged off campuses in handcuffs—for daring to raise their voices in peaceful resistance.
A Fulbright scholar abducted on the streets, while folks watched—her voice silenced for daring to question, to witness, to care.
No explanation. No warrant. Just power and fear.

And I wonder—not just about the legality or the politics of it all—but about the trauma.

Because fear doesn’t just kill hope.
It kills connection. And connection is the bedrock of everything that makes us human.

In the NICU, in trauma-informed developmental care, we talk a lot about safety—real safety. The kind that’s co-created through transparency, respect, trust, and relationship. Not the illusion of control born from surveillance or domination.

But the world outside those NICU walls? It feels like it’s unraveling.

We’re becoming a culture of watchers. Of judges. Of enforcers. Of algorithms that decide who gets dignity and who doesn’t.
And worst of all? We’re getting used to it.

Used to fear. Used to silence. Used to handing over our private selves for inspection in the name of comfort or compliance.

But what if we said no?

Not just to the policy or the practice—but to the paradigm.
What if we stopped feeding the fear and started feeding the courageous, radical belief that we belong to each other?

What if we practiced trauma-informed care not just as a clinical framework—but as a way of being in the world?

Because when I think about that green card holder—stripped, interrogated, alone—I think of the parents I’ve met in the NICU, overwhelmed and unseen.
When I think about that scientist, punished for speaking truth—I think of the clinicians who are silenced for advocating for care that honors the human spirit.
When I think of myself crossing a border with my phone in hand, wondering what they might find—I think of all of us, carrying truths we’ve been told to hide.

This is not just about borders. This is about what kind of world we’re building.

And if we truly care about trauma, about healing, about the future we leave for our children—then we must also care about what happens in the shadows of "national security." We must care about the stories that never make it to the headlines. We must care about the quiet normalization of surveillance and the erosion of dignity.

Because safety without humanity is not safety. It’s fear.

And fear—left to fester—becomes the very trauma we say we’re here to heal.

We are trauma-informed professionals.
We are citizens of a shared world.
We are not gatekeepers of fear.
We are weavers of belonging.

Let’s not be silent. Let’s not be numb.
Let’s be bold.
Let’s be tender.
Let’s remember.

This Week’s Reflection Invitation

When have you felt your dignity compromised in the name of someone else’s comfort or control?
What borders—emotional, relational, or systemic—need healing in your life or work right now?

Holding the line—for justice, dignity, and connection,
Mary

P.S. We are not powerless. We are the weavers of what comes next. The REIMAGINE Movement is where we gather to co-create a future rooted in dignity, justice, and radical belonging. Come stand with us.
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