“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Solomiia, a Ukrainian high school student in Massachusetts, recently shared with one of our advisory board members. “I’m applying for internships for summer 2027, and they want me to guarantee now that I’ll be legally allowed to work next summer. How can I promise that? I don’t even know if I’ll be allowed to stay here myself. I get accepted into really good programs, and then they have to take me out because my status ends in October, and nobody knows what happens after that. I’m going to apply to college soon. Everyone around me is making plans for next year, and I can’t even plan my summer. And where am I supposed to go back to? I don’t really have anywhere to go.”

Solomiia’s story is only one story. But lately, I have been hearing different versions of the same question from Ukrainian women and families throughout our community:

What happens to us after Oct. 19?

Four years is a long time to live out of a suitcase.

And yet, this fall, many Ukrainian families in Greater Boston feel as though they are packing that suitcase all over again.

When the first families arrived after Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, almost everything in their lives was temporary. Their English was limited. Their children were entering unfamiliar American schools. Many women came with children, but without husbands, parents, or the extended family networks they had relied on at home. They were trying to understand how to find housing, get a driver’s license, apply for a job, and simply how life in America worked.

At Jookender, we met many of them during those first months and years.

Now it is 2026.

Their children speak English. They have friends at school. Some are getting ready to apply to college. Some, like Solomiia, are applying for internships and beginning to make the first serious decisions about their adult lives. Their mothers have learned enough English to navigate daily life, found jobs, learned to drive, built friendships, and slowly created something resembling stability.

Boston is no longer simply the place where they fled. For many, it has become home. And suddenly, the ground beneath them feels uncertain again. The uncertainty has a very specific date attached to it.

According to U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS), Ukraine’s current Temporary Protected Status (TPS) designation is scheduled to end on Oct. 19, 2026. In an official update published on Sept. 3, USCIS said Ukraine’s TPS designation and associated benefits are set to end on that date. Employment authorization connected to this protection is also currently tied to Oct. 19.

The immigration situation is not identical for every Ukrainian family. Some entered through the Uniting for Ukraine humanitarian parole program. Some later received TPS. Some have applications for other immigration benefits pending. A smaller number have already found a pathway toward permanent residency.

But for many families, the question remains painfully simple: What happens next?

Oct. 19 does not mean that every Ukrainian family will suddenly be deported the following morning. Immigration status is individual, and different families have different protections and possible legal pathways. But for people whose ability to remain or work in the United States depends on temporary protections, the uncertainty is very real.

And the consequences are already beginning.

Solomiia’s internship problem is one small example. Employers planning programs for summer 2027 understandably want to know whether the students they accept will be authorized to work. Solomiia cannot give them an answer because she does not have one herself.

For an adult, the same uncertainty can mean wondering whether to look for a better job, sign a lease, begin professional training, or make any other decision that assumes you will still be living here next year.

Over the past several years, Jookender has worked with Ukrainian women and families, helping them learn English, establish social connections, find emotional support, and become more independent.

With the generous support of The Miriam Fund, we have created opportunities specifically for women rebuilding their lives after displacement. But recently, we have noticed that what these women need is changing.

How do you encourage someone to pursue additional professional training when she does not know whether she will be allowed to work next year?

How do you convince a teenager to apply for another internship when she cannot provide the documentation the employer requires?

And how do you encourage a mother to join a support group when the question keeping her awake at night is whether she and her children will be able to remain here?

English classes, professional development, and emotional support still matter. We will continue providing them. But a support group works differently when there is a future to work toward. Right now, many of these women do not feel that ground beneath their feet.

They need reliable information. They need to understand their individual legal options. And sometimes they simply need someone knowledgeable to sit across the table from them, look at that confusing stack of immigration papers, and explain what is known, what is not known, and what they can reasonably do next.

With support from The Miriam Fund, Jookender will continue helping Ukrainian women strengthen their English, maintain community connections, and find emotional support. We also intend to bring qualified immigration attorneys and other knowledgeable professionals into these conversations whenever possible, not to promise outcomes that nobody can promise, but to help families understand their options and prepare.

But this cannot be one organization’s responsibility. Four years ago, Greater Boston responded when Ukrainian refugees began arriving. People donated clothing and furniture, helped families find apartments, offered rides, helped children enroll in school, connected adults with jobs, and simply made room.

That generosity mattered. But helping refugees doesn’t end when the suitcases are unpacked. In some ways, this moment may be even harder. Four years ago, these families knew what they were running from. Today, they do not know what they are running toward, or whether they will be allowed to remain where they finally stopped running.

The community that welcomed them can help again. Immigration attorneys can offer reliable information and consultations. Employers can try to understand the complexities their Ukrainian employees and interns are facing. Community organizations can share resources instead of duplicating them. Schools can recognize the extraordinary uncertainty some of their students are carrying. Neighbors and friends can continue doing what communities do best—noticing when someone needs help and showing up.

None of us can guarantee an immigration outcome. Those decisions belong to the federal government and to the legal processes available to each individual. But we can make sure these families do not have to navigate the uncertainty alone.

I keep thinking about Solomiia. She should be worrying about college applications, internships, grades, and all the exciting and slightly terrifying decisions that come with being a high school student preparing for adulthood. Instead, she is wondering whether she will still be here next summer.

Four years ago, our community helped Ukrainian families survive their arrival. Now we have another job. We need to help them protect the lives they have already begun to build.

This post has been contributed by a third party. The opinions, facts and any media content are presented solely by the author, and JewishBoston assumes no responsibility for them. Want to add your voice to the conversation? Publish your own post here. MORE