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The sun had yet to touch the horizon when Farah Larrieux returned to her South Florida home at 6 a.m. Dark circles smudged the thin skin under her eyes as she pulled large trash and recycling bins to the curb. A headache banged on the left side of her skull. The Haitian immigrant had just finished her last overnight shift at a hotel on that Monday morning. She is among the 300,000 Haitians in the U.S. losing the legal status that has allowed them to live and work in the United States.

Temporary protected status (TPS) was first granted to Haitians after Haiti’s devastating 2010 earthquake, because conditions in that country were considered too dangerous for them to return. But last month, the Supreme Court allowed the Trump administration to end those protections.

The ruling has left TPS holders bracing for an uncertain future. It has also rattled South Florida’s Haitian community, where Larrieux lives and where Haitian immigrants work across the region’s health care, hospitality, construction and service industries.

In a statement to NPR, the Department of Homeland Security defended its decision to terminate TPS for Haitians, saying, “conditions in Haiti have improved sufficiently to support the return of Haitian nationals.”

The agency also said that TPS “was never intended to be a de facto asylum program” and that “temporary protections cannot become permanent by default.”

Larrieux has lived in the U.S. for roughly two decades. She said she hasn’t been able to sleep. Sitting at a table in her small living room, she glanced at the plaques and awards recognizing her years of service in the community. She had run out of wall space to hang them, so they spilled across the table. “I can tell you that I feel empty,” she said. “Like I’m living a nightmare.”

Her refrigerator and cupboards are stocked with food because she fears leaving home and being arrested by Immigration and Customs Enforcement. A sheet of white paper covers the small glass panel in her front door because she’s afraid ICE could show up at her home. She has memorized her attorney’s phone number in case she’s detained.

Larrieux works two jobs, including running her own communications business. She has paused both and plans to live off her savings while applying for asylum. She fears that returning to Haiti would amount to a death sentence because she has publicly criticized the country’s government.

“If I don’t get mistreated by ICE at the detention center, I may be killed in Haiti,” said Larrieux. “My blood will be on Trump’s hands.”