A small crowd congregates on the ground floor of the Jacob K. Javits building in New York City–also known as 26 Federal Plaza–following the conclusion of a naturalization ceremony that welcomes a new group of United States citizens.

Many stand proudly underneath a portrait of President Donald Trump with their naturalization certificates in-hand. Family and loved ones snap photos to celebrate and commemorate the moment. Smiles stretch across their faces in contrast with President Trump’s stern, glaring pose framed above them. Their cheers and laughter fill the hall with a joyous air.

A few floors up, rows of masked agents wait ominously outside of a courtroom door. The air in these halls is heavy and foreboding.

A family who showed up to a routine court hearing with the same hope of one day celebrating U.S. citizenship steps out of the courtroom.

Without hesitation, a group of masked agents swarm the father and surround him on all sides.

He looks up at the agents with confusion and fear as they grab him firmly. His daughters latch onto him and begin to cry out, “Por favor, no! Papi!”

Another agent steps in and rips the daughters’ hands off their father’s sweater. The masked agents pull him in the opposite direction. His wife and younger son begin weeping alongside his daughters, looking back over their shoulders as their father disappears into a sea of men.

A collection of photojournalists, including independent journalist Michael Nigro, frantically position and reposition themselves within the crammed hallway to document this chaotic and traumatic scene, acutely aware of their limited window of time to do so.

The father is shoved into a stairwell where no one—not his family, the press, or even lawyers—is allowed. They do not know where he was taken or for what reason. All they know is that he is gone and their family is torn apart.

Photojournalists wait by the stairwell doors. Its small glass window is covered to eliminate visibility. They use their ears rather than their eyes to document what they can. Sometimes they hear the clicks of handcuffs. Sometimes yells and expletives from the agents. Sometimes the screams and cries of detained immigrants. Sometimes nothing.

As their heart rates slowly return to a normal pace, the photojournalists reposition themselves throughout the fluorescent-lit halls in preparation for another scene to unfold.

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Harrowing moments like this have become disturbingly familiar for Nigro and other photojournalists since the start of President Trump’s second term and his administration’s mass deportation campaign that has swept up legal immigrants and U.S. citizens alike while simultaneously taking unprecedented action to roll back legal immigration pathways.

Though now notorious, the federal immigration courts at 26 Federal Plaza and 290 Broadway were once completely shrouded in darkness. Photojournalists have helped to shine a light into these buildings’ halls, but much of what happens outside of their limited field of view remains largely a black hole.

Nigro was among the first journalists who, through happenstance, uncovered the operations taking place at 26 Federal Plaza and 290 Broadway. At the time, he had no idea that a few obscure frames would break a story that would draw the critical attention of local, national and international media and policymakers to the Trump administration’s immigration operations.

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On May 29, 2025, Nigro was documenting protestors gathered in Foley Square in support of Columbia University student Yunseo Chung—a legal permanent resident who has lived in the U.S. since she was 7—who had a hearing on her deportation case. Chung was one of three legal permanent residents (the others being Mahmoud Khalil and Mohsen Mahdawi) targeted by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) through a personal directive from Secretary of State Marco Rubio after participating in a pro-Palestinian protest at Barnard College, the women’s affiliate of Columbia University.

After the protests ended, Nigro left Foley Square and began walking alone down Duane Street which sits between 26 Federal Plaza and 290 Broadway, also known as the Ted Weiss Federal Building.

While walking, Nigro looked from afar into the dirtied glass exterior of the lobby of the Ted Weiss building where he saw a congregation of masked men–a few of them dressed in tactical gear.

Perplexed by this bizarre sight, he raised his camera to capture a few shots. A man then approached him as he was taking his photos, telling him that masked agents were snatching immigrants from immigration courts inside the building.

The man was a federal employee with the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) who worked inside the building, sharing that he had videos of these men roughing up and tackling immigrants who were showing up for routine court appearances. Later reporting revealed that some EPA employees “had been pushed out of the way in elevators and had felt threatened coming to and from work since the ICE agents started appearing in the lobby of the building,” with many expressing deep concern both for the immigrants and their fellow employees.

Nigro was speechless. At the time, he was not aware of the immigration courts housed inside these federal buildings. Moreover, he couldn’t understand why–or more critically, how–ICE agents were detaining immigrants who were following the law and doing things “the right way.” These were not individuals who committed violent, heinous crimes or those who were evading legal processes. These were individuals abiding by the legal systems laid out before them who had legal protected status to live in the United States.

A small group of journalists who had also attended the protest in Foley Square approached Nigro and the EPA employee, curious about what was unfolding. Nigro explained the situation and said that they needed to get inside the building to document what was happening. The other journalists agreed without hesitation, knowing that whatever was happening was clearly intended to be an inconspicuous operation.

Journalists are legally allowed access to both 26 Federal Plaza and 290 Broadway since they are considered public federal property. Nigro and the other journalists, however, were repeatedly denied entry by building security and masked agents with the Department of Homeland Security (DHS).

Nigro decided to call his attorney, Wylie Stecklow–a veteran civil rights attorney–who coincidentally happened to be just a short walk away at the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York.

Upon arrival, Stecklow demanded to speak to the building’s management, to which the agents eventually agreed. However, as with the agents, the building manager insisted that journalists were not allowed inside.

At this point, he and Nigro walked the manager downstairs to show him an official plaque outlining the Federal Rules and Regulations for Conduct on Federal Property which plainly detailed the right for media to access public areas of the building. The manager was baffled, completely unaware of his own building’s rules and regulations.

The manager suggested that Stecklow send an email and submit a formal complaint online. Stecklow refused, stating that if they are forced to leave, every individual journalist will file First Amendment violation claims.

Nigro and other photojournalists have had access to the building ever since.

“I’ve been practicing [as an attorney] for over 30 years, and this might be the biggest impact I have on anything, and it was a few minutes of my life,” Stecklow said.

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Despite their eventual success, photojournalists endured weeks of ongoing resistance as they got closer to the immigration courts upstairs.

Agents at first forced the photojournalists to stand by the elevator banks, obstructing their entry and line of sight into the hallways where the courts resided. Only through persistent opposition did the photojournalists eventually gain access to the halls.

They balanced a delicate and disheartening line. They knew they had full rights to document inside the building. But they also knew that respecting oftentimes questionable boundaries and barriers to access was critical to maintaining any access at all.

“We should have access to the elevators, we should have access to the staircases, but that’s something we just can’t push,” Nigro explained. “We shouldn’t push, because I think they’d kick us out at that point.”

What journalists eventually discovered was that 26 Federal Plaza and 290 Broadway were part of a larger national strategy implemented by the Trump administration to lay traps by stationing federal agents at immigration courts. This strategy aimed to help meet steep daily arrest quotas, spearheaded by White House Deputy Chief of Staff for Policy Stephen Miller.

More critically, what was not known at the time was that these federal buildings in lower Manhattan would be the only immigration courts in the entire country that have allowed continuous access, creating a window into what is otherwise obstructed operations. This is in large part because the buildings are distinct from other immigration courts due to the courts being housed alongside other federal offices.

Many of the agents initially occupying these courts were not from ICE or U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP), but from other federal agencies such as the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) or The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF). Though many refused to identify themselves, many were not masked and were not clothed in tactical gear.

Nigro said that many of these agents expressed visible and verbal disdain at being pulled away from the jobs they signed up for. “One FBI agent said out loud, ‘A year ago, I was solving murders. Now I’m stuck doing this shit,’” he recalled. “You could just see it in their behavior.”

Court reporters and clerks detailed that many of these agents were extremely aggressive with both the immigrants and court staff prior to the arrival of journalists. Though the violence and aggression did not completely stop, the presence of the press helped to reduce its intensity and regularity.

But as the composition of the agents, the nature of their tactics and directives from the Trump administration mutated, so too did the corridors of 26 Federal Plaza.

To further accelerate their mass deportation agenda, the Trump administration lowered hiring and training standards for ICE agents. Unmasked federal agents were gradually replaced by masked agents in tactical gear. The momentary quell of violence dissipated as agents became increasingly more aggressive, both with immigrants and the press.

“They would come up to us and take pictures of our faces, take pictures of our press badge. And the next day, they’d walk up to us and go, ‘Oh, hey, Michael, you were in Ukraine, right?’ Which is a little disconcerting with a masked man coming up to me, or to any of us,” Nigro said. These new agents were far more aggressive than those prior and seemed to relish the opportunity to be there, according to Nigro.

The increase in violence and aggression mirrored trends seen across the U.S. in cities such as Chicago and Minneapolis where agents were documented using “less-lethal” force and other banned tactics in ways that violate both federal and local use-of-force policies.

Though the photojournalists continued to have a critical role in ensuring accountability, the agents–now masked and unidentifiable–often welcomed photographs as part of a larger propaganda machine to lure recruits and rile up those in the Trump administration’s base supportive of this violence and intimidation.

The agents’ behavior was only further emboldened by the Trump administration’s dismantling of oversight guardrails, essentially enabling agents to act with impunity.

One ICE officer was filmed pressing towards a woman before abruptly grabbing her, pulling her hair, and throwing her to the ground. The woman, Monica Moreta-Galarza, was pleading with the officer, in shock after her husband was detained in front of her children despite being granted an extension on their asylum from Ecuador.

The officer was placed on administrative leave, but was reinstated days later without any explanation from DHS.

The disregard for due process and the rule of law as witnessed in the case of Monica Moreta-Galarza’s husband remains commonplace inside the halls.

“Almost always, the judge said, ‘it’s a continuance, you have a case for asylum and I’ll see you in a year,’ or, ‘I’ll see you in six months,’ or, ‘I’ll see you in 2027,’” he said. “We heard [the agents] call them their ‘target.’ They would grab them and disappear them. It was shocking to watch. We asked to see a warrant, and to this day … I’ve never seen a warrant.”

The “targets” also oftentimes included not only immigrants who entered and exited the courtrooms, but any Black or brown person who entered the building more broadly. Nigro recalled agents surrounding and grabbing a Black man who walked into the building one morning, demanding he show them his ID. The man was a federal employee who worked for the EPA for more than 13 years.

“They have these rolls of paper which are not warrants, but it’s a kind of cheat sheet of who they’re looking for, and if somebody looks like somebody, they’re going to grab them,” he said.

Nigro detailed a particularly shocking incident involving a 22-year-old man who did not speak any English. When leaving the courtroom, the man saw that masked agents were waiting outside the courtroom doors to detain him. Visibly terrified, he decided to turn around and ran back inside to avoid them. ICE agents and photographers are not allowed inside the courtrooms, but in this instance, the agents chased him–the photographers made the quick call to follow them, too.

Agents chased the man around the room before finally grabbing him and flipping him over a bench. Nigro noted with fear in his voice that one agent was mere moments away from unholstering his gun inside the courtroom. Once agents detained the man, they corralled him through the hallway and into the closed-off stairwell. All that could be heard was the man’s screams and cry for help.

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Much is still unknown about what happens to individuals once they are detained and moved to closed-off parts of the building. But the persistence of photojournalists and other journalists has helped to reveal some critical information.

It would be discovered that many immigrants are detained on the building’s 10th floor in what is intended to be a temporary holding area where individuals are held for a few hours before being transferred to larger, more permanent and resourced detention centers. However, further investigation revealed that many immigrants were being held for days or even more than a week in some instances.

Rooms meant to hold a dozen people became filled with more than a hundred people, including children, who are reportedly denied access to medical care, legal aid, and phone calls to family and loved ones. Many reported only receiving one to two meals a day, being forced to sleep upright due to the cramped conditions, and being unable to bathe or change clothes.

Beginning in August and extended in September, a federal judge ordered the Trump administration to improve what the judge described as “unconstitutional and inhumane treatment” at 26 Federal Plaza. At a federal hearing in February, the Trump administration revealed that, in addition to the building’s 10th floor, they had been detaining individuals on a separate, secret floor where they decided that prior ruling didn’t apply.

Many of these individuals have been shipped across the country to detention facilities or deported to countries where they have no ties while simultaneously being denied legal representation or access to communication with a lawyer, their family, or anyone else during that process. Some individuals detained and deported have included pregnant and postpartum women–one attorney documented by Nigro shared that her client’s wife suffered a miscarriage after witnessing his detention.

As of early April, nearly three quarters of all individuals held in ICE detention have no criminal conviction–of those who do have criminal convictions, most are for minor, nonviolent offenses. It is also worth noting that being undocumented is a civil violation under U.S. law, not a criminal offense.

The Department of Justice (DOJ) recently admitted in a letter to a federal judge that the legal basis ICE used for virtually all arrests at 26 Federal Plaza was falsified.

The same arrests and subsequent detentions are now the subject of a federal lawsuit alleging violations of First and Fifth Amendment rights. The trial, which began this week, has already revealed messages from ICE agents detailing the health crises that permeated the facility, including “multiple” instances of detainees requiring hospital care for cardiac events and seizures.

Just days before the one-year anniversary of Nigro and other photojournalists first gaining access to these federal buildings, a New York federal judge issued an order that banned ICE agents from arresting immigrants in or around these federal courthouses except under extraordinary circumstances, such as threats to national security or an extreme public safety concern.

The following day, however, a 21-year-old man was arrested by ICE agents inside 26 Federal Plaza following a routine court hearing. The New York Legal Assistance Group (NYLAG), with New York University (NYU) as co-counsel, filed a habeas corpus petition on the individual’s behalf and secured his release later that day.

“I feel like I’m watching a crime being committed against people who are doing the right thing,” Nigro said. “It’s very simple–do you believe in due process, or not? None of this is due process, period. That’s why [we journalists] have always said, this is a crime scene.”

Stecklow reflected on the small but consequential role he played in helping to open the door for these journalists–and ultimately, the country–to witness the Trump administration’s immigration campaign head on, invoking U.S. Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis who said, “Sunlight is said to be the best of disinfectants.”

Inside these federal buildings, the cameras have been the light. The images captured inside these hallways have reverberated far beyond the fluorescent-lit corridors, putting human faces to what would otherwise remain a story told only through court filings or government statistics–families torn apart, children in tears, men and women who disappear into stairwells and elevator shafts, their hopes of one day becoming U.S. citizens vanishing with them.

“I don’t think a lot of this happens if we don’t have the journalists in there showing people what’s going on,” Stecklow said.

This visual record, the product of the tireless and persistent efforts of photojournalists, has forced Americans to look these men, women, children and families in their faces and reckon with the intentional policy choices of the Trump administration.

Nigro has documented and endured some of the most consequential and emotionally taxing moments in recent memory, such as January 6th, Russia’s war against Ukraine, and the Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville.

Still, he describes his work inside these federal buildings as, by far, the hardest of his career.

“When I’m home at night after I’ve filed and it’s just filtering through what I saw, it is a heavy, heavy burden, because that person that I saw disappeared yesterday, today, a week ago, they’re still in jail for trying to do the right thing,” he said. “To watch them rip a man away from his kids, and these kids are just shattered–to have that done in darkness, and no one has a record of it … it would be horrible.”

“This just seems to be a turning point for America, disregard of the rule of law, disregard for just a democratic process, the withering away of the judicial system and the immigration system, as flawed as it is,” Nigro said. “These are historical moments that I hope live on. If, after all this, we have a history of it, this will be the history of it.”

Over the course of his time documenting 26 Federal Plaza and 290 Broadway, Nigro compiled the following short documentary of what he and other photojournalists witnessed inside these federal buildings.

ICED Out of America is currently making its way through the festival circuit, where an expanded cut is being shown.

Thank you for taking the time to read this piece.

Stories like this exist because journalists like Michael Nigro show up, day after day, to bear witness to events that would otherwise happen in darkness. Their tireless efforts help to shine a light on the people and stories that often go untold.

If this piece moved you, please consider sharing it with others.

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If you have thoughts, I’d love to hear them in the comments below. And if you’d like future pieces delivered directly to your inbox, please consider subscribing to Underexposed.

Underexposed by Brian Edsall

Underexposed brings visibility to the people and stories that go overlooked and under explored, with the goal of deepening our understanding of the human experience.

Editor’s note, May 31, 2026: This piece has been updated to include Mohsen Mahdawi, a legal permanent resident and Columbia University student who was also targeted by the Trump administration alongside Yunseo Chung and Mahmoud Khalil.

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I was drawn to Bird Uncaged: An Abolitionist’s Freedom Song earlier this year when browsing the biography section in Barnes & Noble. I picked up a copy and skimmed the inside cover to learn that I was currently living in a neighborhood in Brooklyn that the author, Marlon Peterson, grew up in. At first glance, this would be the extent of commonalities shared between Marlon and me. After I finished reading, however, I felt inspired by and connected to many of Marlon’s words and was compelled to connect with him.

I reached out to Marlon directly via Instagram to share my admiration for his book and the hope of connecting with him to learn about and capture him and his story. Marlon was, from the start, warm and willing to connect. His warmth and openness is something I admire greatly.

He shared with me at the time that a new version of his book was soon being released. This version would include an Epilogue which would consist entirely of a letter he wrote to his daughter, Maya. Written largely before Maya was born, Marlon’s book does not focus much on the relationship with his daughter. However, despite the Epilogue being just a handful of pages, it was clear to me from the vulnerability and love he expresses in his letter that Maya was a huge part of his life. It was also clear that becoming a father kindled many complicated and intense emotions in Marlon.

As a new father, Marlon is fearful not only of raising a child in a world that caused him so much pain, but also in how his past experiences and actions may impact his ability to be a good father and to be someone his daughter looks up to. Marlon grapples with the knowledge that one day, Maya will learn of this past, afraid that her innocent gaze of the world, and her world, may fade.

We are constantly fed stories of individuals who have committed crimes, but rarely are stories told of the traumas and experiences that may influence people - especially youth and young adults - to commit a crime, nor are many stories told of the traumas and hardships one will likely face during and after life in prison. Even more rare are stories that explore how these traumas and experiences intertwine with one’s loved ones, including their children.

Some may argue that the emotional and personal stories of currently and formerly incarcerated individuals are irrelevant because of their wrongdoings, and in some instances, because of the harm they have brought upon other people. To be clear, this is not a defense of any wrongdoing or harm. Rather, I firmly believe that deeming these stories and individuals in these circumstances as irrelevant is part of a larger problem. When a person is made to feel irrelevant, they often lose respect and care for themselves and the world around them. They lose their sense of humanity. They are deemed as “other.”

As previously mentioned, at first glance of his book, Marlon and I shared few things in common. However, the goal of my work is to continuously step outside of my own experiences, step outside of my own world to learn about, listen to, and work to understand the life and experiences of others. So often, we may hear these stories but actively chose not to listen, building walls out of our own comforts and biases. I can’t do justice to Marlon’s story the way he does in his own words, but what I can do is speak to the observations and feelings I had after reading his book, the reflections and moments shared by Marlon that I emotionally connected to, and why his letter and his relationship with his daughter, in particular, touched to me. In reading this, and hopefully, in reading Marlon’s book, I hope you too can take a moment to listen.

Marlon begins his book with a letter to his younger self:

“Dear Marlo',

The first thing you should know is that you were a beautiful, brilliant, bubbly Black boy. Your big black lips were just the right size. No need to hide them by folding them inwards. No need to hide your presence. You were talkative, and that was okay. It was your way of sharing your light. No need to hide your voice by playing small. Your smile...your smile was contagious. No need to hide it by masking it with screwfaces. Your ability to carry on big people conversations as an eight-year-old was a gift. No need to hide your maturity. It was one of the ways you learned about the world, even if you did raise your parents' phone bill to over $1,000 dollars by calling 1-900 numbers to play Jeopardy! You were a nerd. No need to hide your intelligence.

You should know that your 1980s Crown Heights, Brooklyn, neighborhood needed young Black boys like you to shine and inspire. Too many of you hid, in cages of your own creation, but mostly in cages created for you. Often the two were indistinguishable.”

The final sentences of this letter, along with the title of his book, shine a light on a symbolic thread that would weave Marlon’s story together: cages. As he describes in his letter, the cages that were created for and by Marlon - as well as many other young Black men growing up in his neighborhood - were often “indistinguishable.”

These cages would confine and suffocate Marlon’s ability to be emotionally vulnerable, see himself in a positive light, and open up to and accept love from the people around him.

It was in this confinement that Marlon felt the need to “move on” from the traumas he faced. In reality, “moving on” always meant holding on, pushing his trauma deep down into a place where he may not have seen it, but he certainly felt it. Marlon was in a space without space, without room to properly acknowledge, sort through, and heal from these traumas.

He would internalize how people and the world treated him, tearing down his sense of self-worth and his deservingness to be happy. It was in this space that Marlon would work so hard to be something he wasn’t, pursuing the person that he and others thought he should be, rather than being comfortable with who he was.

Like a caged bird, Marlon grew to forget the heights he could reach in an open sky, seeing only the low, grey ceiling and bars of his cage. He slowly lost his strength and will to fly. Without flight, without blue skies, silky clouds, and warm sunshine, he grew to feel a sense of irrelevancy.

For much of his youth, Marlon would have a lower regard for himself, and in turn, for people around him. It is in this space, at the age of 19, that Marlon was arrested for his role in a violent robbery attempt that left two people dead. While Marlon was not directly responsible for the deaths of the two individuals, he would go on to serve over 10 years in prison for his connection with the case.

While in this physical cage, Marlon would sink deeper into the emotional cages formed during his youth. He would isolate himself, but in addition to closing himself off from those he was incarcerated with, this isolation would, for a long time, close him off from receiving love and support from his family and friends as well.

Writing would become an important part of Marlon’s healing while in prison. It would become a medium for him to express himself, and a key that, while slow turning, would help to free Marlon from these cages. “My writing became the place I ran to when I had good and bad news. It became my best conversant,” Marlon says. “It held my secrets, which was an improvement from keeping everything inside.” Writing this book would pave a path towards healing and provide a space for Marlon to reclaim his story.

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To be clear, it was not prison that helped Marlon along this journey towards healing, towards breaking down the emotional cages while confined to the physical ones. “Most people like to believe the illusion that prison is the intervention that stops crime. But it’s not, it’s getting older, having a sense of usefulness, believing in something you want to live for,” Marlon says. It was people, and writing, that helped Marlon regain a sense of relevancy, humanity, and purpose.

Time would pass, and Marlon would be released from the physical cages that confined him. However, the emotional cages, in many ways, would become fortified.

“I believed that the possibility of love, companionship, was an obstacle to freedom,” Marlon says. “This belief system, the need to control, though of good use for me in prison, would haunt me for years after my release.” Despite his physical freedom, the prison that Marlon has had the hardest time identifying and abolishing is the one that has convinced him that he does not deserve to be happy, that “happiness is a fleeting moment, but never a movement.”

To heal from our past, we first must go back in order to move forward. For Marlon, writing this book helped him to reach back to, forgive, and love his younger self.

In time, Marlon would find the courage to admit that “there were reasons - not excuses - but that there were reasons for that fateful day in October 1999,” that there was deep trauma associated with living in a community where “guns are easier to get than sneakers” as he explains in his TED Talk.

Unhealed trauma, in many ways, is like a fracture to a bone. Fractured bones will heal, but without proper care, there is risk of that bone healing in a way that permanently impairs its function. The only way to properly tend to a bone that heals in this way is to break it again. In this sense, reliving and experiencing pain is not only necessary, but inevitable in the processes of proper healing.

We typically don’t feel these fractures in stagnation. Rather, we feel them when living, in allowing our bodies to experience and work through the gravity of the world. Marlon would feel these fractures after the birth of his daughter, Maya.

Alongside all of the love, joy, pride, and optimism he felt when first becoming a father, he also felt fear, shame, and doubt. As Marlon says in his letter to Maya, “Maybe you were communicating the details of the love you required from me: to protect you from the worst parts of myself, from this world. Or maybe you needed me to know that I was perfect in your eyes, and not the man who inconspicuously struggles with brokenness.”

Children are born without cages, born as pure physical and spiritual manifestations of their parents. In many ways, the purity and love that Maya reflects onto Marlon is helping him heal while he continues to heal himself. However, it is that same purity that Marlon, as a father, wants to protect and is fearful of tarnishing. “I hope I don't pass the worst of me on to you, my love,” he says in his letter. “I don't want to hurt you like this world has hurt me and people like you, and people like your mother, and people like your uncles, and people like your aunt, and people like my father.”

As the conclusion to his book, Marlon’s letter to Maya is not the ending, but, in many ways, the start of a new chapter in his story and the story they will share together. Just as Marlon works to build Maya’s wings, she too is helping to restrengthen his, helping him to fly, to be free. The doubt, shame, and fear that Marlon feels in being a father - and, especially, the ability to openly express these feelings - are not signs of brokenness, weakness, or ineptitude. Rather, they’re signs of the strength, love, and capability to be an amazing father.

I could see and feel the shared love between him and Maya during our time together. I could see it in how carefully he carried her stroller up the stairs to the studio as not to wake her while she was sleeping. I could see it when he turned on one of her favorite songs - Calm Down, by Rema - when she woke up, dancing with her to make her feel more comfortable in an unfamiliar place. I could see it in how he would adjust her dress when it wrinkled. I could see it when she would turn or look towards him when she was confused or uncomfortable. I could see it in the way she mimicked his facial expressions and mannerisms. I could see it in how much Marlon smiled around Maya, despite smiling being something he has had to relearn. When Marlon smiled, Maya smiled, too.

While Marlon and Maya’s stories are continuing to be written, they do not have to wait for a happy ending. “Maybe what you were communicating to me in those first ten minutes of life is that happiness doesn't have to be next. Happiness can be now,” Marlon says in his letter. “We can expose the worst of us in order to embrace the best of us. We can abolish these cages, the ones that were built for us and the ones we made ourselves.”

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Voiceover Music: Nylonia / Insular / Courtesy of Epidemic Sound (www.epidemicsound.com)