Yesterday, I learned how fragile freedom can feel when it’s tested in the dark, far from home, at the hands of the very people sworn to uphold it.

On the evening of January 5th, I approached a U.S. Border Patrol immigration checkpoint in Texas. I wasn’t committing a crime. I wasn’t evading law enforcement. I wasn’t a threat to anyone.

I was simply recording — peacefully and lawfully — exercising a right that belongs to all of us.

That alone changed everything.

After a canine unit circled my vehicle and found nothing, I was asked if I was a U.S. citizen. I chose to exercise my constitutional right to remain silent. For that decision — for knowing my rights and standing on them — I was ordered into secondary inspection.

What followed was not routine.

I was surrounded by multiple federal agents. My calm refusal to surrender my rights was met with escalating threats. A supervising agent repeatedly warned me that if I didn’t comply, I would be arrested and detained.

Then, without consent and without cause, my car door was opened.

My phone — the very device documenting what was happening — was forcibly taken from my hands and thrown onto my dashboard. My seatbelt was unbuckled by force. I was violently removed from my vehicle. I did not resist. I did not fight back. I did not give them a reason.

Still, I was searched. My phone was shut off while recording. I was taken inside the facility, subjected to invasive searches, groped, and separated from my belongings.

I was threatened with forced fingerprinting — told agents would physically grab my hand and press it onto a scanner. I was threatened with arrest for “failure to identify.” I was placed into a holding cell, taken out, put back in, and threatened again — all to compel compliance.

No charges were ever filed.

Eventually, I was released — not because I had done nothing wrong (which I hadn’t), but because there was never a lawful basis to hold me in the first place.

When I returned to my vehicle and reviewed my phone, I made another chilling discovery: the recording of my detention had been deleted from my gallery. It appeared only in “Recently Deleted,” requiring Face ID access. I did not delete it.

My luggage had also been opened — with a visible hole cut into it — despite agents denying any search had occurred.

This wasn’t just a detention.

It was a message.

A message that silence is safer than knowledge.

That compliance is easier than courage.

That rights only exist if no one tests them.

But I refuse to accept that.

What happened to me should never quietly happen to someone else — not at a checkpoint, not on a roadside, not anywhere in this country.

Since this incident, I’ve been traveling, documenting, preserving evidence, filing complaints, and preparing for the road ahead. This work isn’t free. It requires travel, lodging, transportation, time, and resources — the real-world costs of standing up when others hope you’ll sit down.

This fundraiser isn’t just about me.

It’s about all of us — about whether transparency is protected or punished, about whether rights are respected or enforced only when convenient.

If you believe that standing on your rights should never land you in a holding cell…

If you believe that recording in public should not be met with force…

If you believe that accountability requires community…

Then I’m asking you to stand with me.

Together, we can make sure this moment isn’t forgotten — and that it leads to something bigger than fear.

Thank you for being here.

Thank you for caring.

And thank you for helping turn this into accountability.