The silent struggles that shape a first-gen story

When you're a law student, there’s this unspoken pressure: You’ve made it this far, so you clearly are capable of handling things on your own. You must have it figured out. You must know everything. After all, you’re in law school and isn’t that proof you’re doing fine for yourself?

This post by Jenna highlights how first-gen students are often given more responsibility because they seem strong, even when they’re carrying silent struggles.

Recently I got into an argument with my parents about something I didn't realize had been weighing on me for a long time. I do a lot of things in silence. I do a lot of things alone.

I feel like everyone in my family assumes I am capable of handling a lot. No one really checks in on me. No one really asks how I’m doing. Meanwhile, I’m often the one who checks in on them.

When I brought it up, my mom said: "You always tell us what’s going on, so we figured you’d say something if you needed us. We didn’t think we had to ask."

But sometimes, I wish someone would reach out and ask.

When you’re used to doing everything alone, reaching out doesn’t come naturally. And when you’re worried about being a burden, you end up carrying everything quietly until you simply can’t anymore.

This post by Ryan Chen highlights how first-gen students often carry the weight of familial expectations, leading to silent struggles with mental health that are frequently misunderstood or dismissed by those closest to them. 

My mom often says she doesn’t want to bother me, but I don’t want to bother anyone either. So I just share the results: the awards, the acceptances, the wins and I try to hide the struggle.

A lot of it goes back to something deeper. Not feeling like people believed in me from the start. Not wanting them to see my failures.

When I was younger, I was the kid who disrupted class. I couldn’t sit still. I always wanted to talk. It wasn’t a shock when I was diagnosed with ADHD. And because of that, very little was expected of me.

I’m the middle child and often overlooked already. Anything I accomplished was treated like a miracle. So I went from being a loud kid to doing a lot of things in silence.

I did well in high school. I joined organizations. I applied to college alone. I got a scholarship alone.

I did well in college. I navigated opportunities I didn’t even know existed as a first-gen student. And when it came time for law school, I did my applications in silence. I didn’t tell anyone where I was applying. I just waited to receive my acceptance and told them afterward. 

The other day, my grandma told me that she never knew I wanted to be a lawyer like I just woke up one day and decided to go to law school. It stung.

I dreamed of being a lawyer since I was sixteen, after doing the Hardin County Teen Court Program, a community service initiative that helped troubled youth reintegrate into society through court cases that resulted in community service sentencing.

I had told everyone in my family. They just didn’t hear me, or maybe they didn’t believe it.

This moment reminded me of what Dan Croteau described in A Marriage of Unequals.

But if I said I wanted to go college, it would have been like saying he wanted to grow gills and breathe underwater.

Dreams can feel invisible, even unbelievable, to the people around you when they've never seen them happen before.

Now my grandma brags to everyone, “My granddaughter, the future lawyer.”

Sometimes it feels like no one in my family truly knows the battles I’ve fought to get here. They see the end result not the work, the self doubt, and the fight it took every step of the way.

First-Gen success often looks effortless to outsiders. But inside, it’s years of unseen labor, hope, and strength. Silent struggles. Quiet victories. Moments we carried ourselves when no one thought to ask if we needed carrying. Moments when the only voice telling us we were capable was our own.

This idea of moving forward quietly and keeping struggles private is highlighted in Becoming by Michelle Obama.

When Michelle confessed to her mom about wanting to leave her high-paying job to find something more fulfilling, her mom said:

I say make the money first and worry about your happiness later.

Like Michelle, I’ve felt that disconnect. The gap between what we feel inside and what our families expect of us based on survival.

And so, sometimes, silence feels easier.

Not because we don’t want to share, but because explaining dreams that sound risky or unfamiliar can feel like too much.

And yet, through all of it, my family has been there in the ways they knew how to be. Maybe not always asking the right questions. Maybe not always hearing my dreams or maybe being skeptical because no one in our family had ever been a lawyer before. But, they still loved me in their own way even if it was with caution. Both things can be true.

I am proud of all I have accomplished along the way. And I see the girl who built it. The one whose ideas seemed too big, too loud to everyone else, but that girl turned them into reality. I don’t see what I have done as a miracle. I see the late nights, the tears, the self pep talks, the grit it took to give myself permission to dream. And I am starting to learn that sharing the full story, not just the victories, is part of it too.

Disorganized, but not in the way you're thinking

When you hear the word "disorgazined," you might think of someone who cannot keep track of things -- a person who has papers all over their room or who cannot manage their time. There is a different meaning for the word, however, that stems from attachment theory. Attachment is a term in psychology for an individual's emotional connection to others, and it can manifest in adults' behaviors in relationships. 

Under attachment theory, there are four unique "attachment styles": secure, avoidant, anxious, and disorganized. A person forms their attachment style starting in infancy and in response to his or her caregiver. "Secure" is, in my opinion, the ideal attachment style. This style is formed when the caregiver has served as a safe base for the child. Adults with a secure attachment style are usually more confident, independent, and emotionally stable. 

Following the secure attachment style are "anxious" and "avoidant." These are considered "insecure" attachment styles. Anxious attachment style is characterized by a lower self-esteem, but higher reliance on others. On the other end of the spectrum, the avoidant attachment style is characterized by a more normal self-esteem but high avoidance of others. 

Rounding out the attachment style friend group is the least favorable who no one wants around – "disorganized." This attachment style is the rarest of the four, and someone with this style usually exhibits behaviors that are a mix of both anxious and avoidant. Above, I said that anxious and avoidant are on two ends of a spectrum, so how can behaviors of both be present? Well, the disorganized attachment style can be described as contradictory, paradoxical, unpredictable, and unstable. 

Experiencing abuse at a young age, not being able to depend on your caregiver, and growing up in an adverse environment are all ways that cause a child to develop a disorganized attachment style. 

I was a psychology and human development double-major in undergrad, so I knew plenty about attachment theory when I came to law school. In undergraduate classes, we had watched videos of children with all different types of attachment styles, but disorganized was the most concerning. These babies would see their caregivers and not really know how to react. Anxious attachment babies would be inconsolable, while avoidant babies would be unfazed. Disorganized babies would show conflicted behavior. 

Why I never took an attachment style quiz in undergrad, I do not know. Maybe I was worried the results would show what I was already concerned about – that I am just bad at relationships. It was not until this First Gen Experience course where one of the readings talked about attachment styles that I decided I wanted to know. 

I clicked on the first link that appeared when I Googled "Attachment Style Quiz," and I answered the questions to the best of my ability. It asked about my relationships with each parent, my self-image, and my behaviors in relationships now. Even just filling out the questions, I was thinking that my answers were definitely not going to lead to a result of secure, but I was hoping it would be anxious or avoidant. I can't be THAT messed up, right? 

I was wrong. The results popped up: "Fearful Avoidant/Disorganized." 

Honestly, I shouldn't have been so surprised. Despite my inability to maintain relationships, I did not want to see myself as those conflicted babies in the human development videos. I know myself, and I know that I would like to be in a healthy relationship. However, I also know that there is usually a .001% chance I'll agree to meet up with someone I match with on Hinge. I am both somehow so anxious to get into a relationship yet so avoidant of actually being in one. 

There has been a lot of negative self-talk and the occasional snarky comment from my family or friends about my behavior in romantic relationships. I joke about dying alone or surrounded by cats, but I also do worry that I may actually be incapable of being in a relationship simply because I am too much of a barrier to myself. 

I suppose it does provide a little bit of comfort that these internal forces can possibly be attributed to how I was raised. At least I can relieve some self blame by blaming my mom and dad. 

On the other hand, I somehow feel that I only have myself to blame. Maybe I'm not putting enough effort into "getting out there." I am conflicted about whether to blame myself or my upbringing. That sounds like classic clonflicted disorganized behavior. 

After I took the test, I wanted to tell my mom because it does feel like an explanation of sorts. I opted to not go into detail because I worried that she would spiral and blame herself. How can you explain that you're likely bad at relationships in part because of the person you're talking to? What exactly was it in my childhood that made me this way?

Ultimately, I am unsure how to fix this issue. The internet says to practice self-compassion, establish boundaries, work on regulating your emotions, etc. I fear those are easier said than done. Hopefully I can work through my issues someday... but dying surrounded by cats could be nice, too.

A prudent concern to cultivate

 Civilization VI (“Civ6”) is a mobile game that I began to play early on this semester out of piqued curiosity and a desire to justify my renewed Netflix subscription. It’s a very long and intricate game, played in an almost tabletop style, that positions each player as the immortal head of their randomly assigned nation. At every turn, each player is faced with seemingly minor decisions about the management of their fledgling nation. Each decision takes several turns into the future to become fully realized. Some examples are should I build a library or a military encampment? Should I destroy a forest to build a university? With whom should I establish a trade route or begin a war with? Each turn that passes represents 1-2 years of a history unrealized and of the player’s intentional--or at times in my case--negligent design.

Civ6 can often feel like a digital power trip, but it’s so much more because of how it reminds the player about the real-life consequences of the decisions made by those in power. In Civ6, the boundary of a player’s power is defined by the agency of other players (real or not), the agency of one's citizens, and often geography of the world itself. Cities can starve, be conquered, choose to rebel, seek independence, or even join another nation. Each game is limited to 500 turns per player, but masochists and victims of the sunk cost fallacy may play on. At the time of writing this, I am on my 642^nd turn of my first game.

I can’t be the only one who enjoys the occasional power fantasy. As a first gen, I know it feels good to take control over the trajectory of your life. Like the British Special Air Service (SAS), we know "who dares, wins." It takes guts to apply, more to show up, and even more to keep showing up. 

Yet, there is a dark side of ambition that any student of history should know to be wary of. Watching and reading Hillbilly Elegy, it's hard to think that a young J.D. Vance—a first generation law student—would grow up and contribute such reprehensible actions such as firing the commander of 821^st Space Base Group in Greenland simply because she criticized the Trump Administration’s policy in the country. J.D. Vance also voiced support for a national abortion ban to prevent people from accessing care by crossing state lines in response to a shifting political climate. Because of actions like these, I believe it is wise to fear the corrupting nature of power.

In August 1971, psychologist Philip Zimbardo sought to investigate the effects of situational variables on the behavior of participants within a simulated prison environment. The participants, all college students, were each randomly assigned the role of either prisoner or security guard. Although the study was designed to go on for two weeks, the experiment had to be terminated after only six days due to severe abuses perpetrated by the guards. For many, this study is just one demonstration of the corrupting nature of authority. This conclusion may be unsurprising for those who are familiar with the old adage that "absolute power corrupts absolutely."

In my experience, "First and Onlys" are an ambitious lot. We have things to prove and people to prove wrong. However, as we’ve discussed in class, social mobility requires compromise and adaptation. As attorneys, we are very likely to be placed in positions of trust and authority and therefore are likely to become the targets forces with even greater power that seeking to accumulate more power or avoid negative consequences. Whether that takes the relatively mild form of pressure from a client to utilize certain unsavory tactics or something more severe like accepting campaign donations from a morally bankrupt corporation, we should be aware of the places our ambitions could take us.

 Saint Bernard of Clairvaux says the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I can't think of a single classmate who doesn't want to leave the world a better place. In other words, good intentions are abundant. Still, it would be naive to think we will always get things right, that we will always avoid standing on the wrong side of history. 

For example, I was recently frustrated to see many of my colleagues on the Law Student Association (LSA) refuse to acknowledge important democratic principles, even though they did so in pursuit of a cause as important and noble as the liberation of Palestine in the face of genocide. It is important to defend these principles (most notably here, the First Amendment prohibition against viewpoint discrimination), even when doing so is detrimental to causes we are passionate about. Failing to do so weakens these principles to be attacked by those with ill intent.

Playing Civ6 can feel a bit heavy if you keep in mind what each icon represents. Investments into infrastructure constitute multigenerational levels of effort and sacrifice. Every war I start or react to results in the loss of loyal soldiers. And yet the desire to conquer and to grow my territory remains. I have also found myself adopting policies whose utilization I would detest in the real world. For example, I have used espionage and razed disloyal cities for the sake of pursuing a utilitarian strategy because it is easier to win when my hands aren't tied by morality. Considering myself a good person and being unable to resist the corrupting desire to win and grow in power in Civ6 is a humbling contradiction that I have yet to resolve. After all, if--when no one is looking--we can't bind ourselves to our morals when the stakes are low, what chance do we have at making a moral and costly decision when the stakes are high?

I therefore encourage my fellow First and Onlys to hold themselves to a higher standard whenever possible and to inoculate themselves against the corrupting influence of power. The more difficult and costly the decision, the more prepared you will find yourself when the time comes. 

If you seek further inspiration, here is an example of a man who was able to hold onto his morality when faced with what he perceived to be certain nuclear apocalypse and justified retribution. May we all find such strength when we need it most, when tough decisions test our resolve to do good.

Meanwhile, as I grow into the lawyer and person I want to be, I'm going to enjoy my silly nation building game. But I will also hold it with me as a reminder of much more serious decisions that are sure to come.

Influencer Marketing: How can I make money or expand my network while in law school?

As I sit in the expansive meeting hall amongst a sea of other 1Ls during orientation, I think about how nervous I am to be here. Even my scholarship-subsidized $20,000 tuition for the year was difficult to come up with, but it's significantly less than what most others pay (UC Davis Law tuition is just under $60,000)––or will have to pay after incurring significant debt––for law school. One of our academic deans walks up to the stage and announces that law school will be rigorous, stressful, and time-consuming. She also announces that we should not have jobs while in school.

This is not a unique experience. Many friends who attend other law schools told me that their deans don't just advise against students getting jobs, they forbid it. Students are thus faced with a difficult question during their first year of law school: do I incur massive debt and throw myself into my law school experience, or do I work and achieve financial security while putting my law school experience at risk? 

There's now a third option in a growing age of social media marketing: law students can monetize their "influence" by either documenting their law school experiences online, or by engaging in brand deals where they recommend products to their “followers.” Two of my friends have particularly enjoyed their experience as “influencers,” and have reaped other perks, too. 

One friend, "A.J.," shared that her experience working with brands resulted in transferable skills in her job as a transactional attorney at a “big law” firm. As an influencer, she often "marked up" potential contracts with her brand partners, negotiating key terms such as deliverables, timelines, price, and usage rights. During interviews, she explained that the negotiation and contract-drafting skills she acquired would allow her to be a stronger negotiator. Her personal experience translating "legalese" to lay terms allowed her to do the same for clients once she began working as an attorney. 

That said, she also acknowledged several risks to availing oneself to an online audience. These include the potential for reputational damage. A.J. writes, "Your professional reputation starts in law school, if not before. If you are connected with your classmates and coworkers on social media, they may judge you for what you post. Being called an 'influencer' has had a negative connotation in my opinion, so you may have to manage that."

Fortunately, a growing community of lawyers engage in content creation. This mitigates some of the negative perceptions of being an "influencer." 

Potential tax liability can be another pitfall. A.J. warns that "free gifts" or "free trips" delivered by brand partners to influencers are actually income on which taxes must be paid.  

Another friend, "B.Q.," shared that she "wouldn't consider herself an influencer" but has enjoyed sharing her experience online as a first-gen and DACA student. She garnered her platform after posting a "reaction video" to Tiktok of opening her California Bar "Pass.” Since then, many individuals have messaged her, often to ask questions about the law school application process.  She thus realized there was a need to document what it's like to attend law school and work at a "big law" firm. She is using her platform to post educational videos about the law school admissions process, on-campus interviewing (“OCI”), and her journey in general. B.Q. has connected with women in San Francisco who share identities with her, and she says it has helped her foster community. 

That said, B.Q. cautions against having too-large a social media platform. 

Every law firm has a social media policy. Many are becoming more conservative with respect to their social media policies, so I definitely recommend being very cautious about what you post. I don't post my firm's name in any video and am careful to not come across as speaking on behalf of my firm or posting any confidential information on my platform. 

B.Q. also shared that, during the OCI process, she made most of her social media accounts private to avoid being judged for her personal views. 

Whether you decide to supplement your law school career financially via influencer marketing, or to grow your network via influencer networking, social media is a new tool law students can use to expand opportunities. While it was not the best opportunity for me, I have seen several friends successfully manage their accounts to supplement their experiences in corporate world, be it through paying off debt, speaking about “influencing” in interviews, or finding a community or network of similarly situated individuals.  

As the legal field adapts to technological and media advancements, influencer marketing could be a useful skill to add to your resume. 

Reputation, relationships, and law school

One part of law school that has been more complicated to navigate than I expected is the social aspect of it.

I am no stranger to small class sizes or being around the same people everyday, as this was how my entire educational experience from K-12th grade was. However, there is one key difference here: this is professional school. I am surrounded by people who I may have to work with or around for the rest of my legal career.

I am someone who likes to keep a very clear boundary between my work life and my personal life. There are aspects of my life that I firmly believe are not for my colleagues or bosses to know. I have seen the drama that can ensue when boundaries between work and play are crossed, and I have absolutely no interest in being involved with any of it.

This also applies to law school.

At this school, I have a reputation for staying out of the loop. I avoid bar reviews, parties, and most large get-togethers that consist mostly of law students. I am also very private regarding my opinions on other students and with details regarding my personal life in general.

Many people have interpreted my behavior as being rooted in some sort of dislike or hate for other Davis law students.

This could not be further from the truth. I have actually met some really cool people here. Rather, it is me trying to maintain this balance that I have described. I have seen the amount of drama that arises for students who are heavily socially involved and this is just something that I want no parts of. Law school is difficult enough without the social drama.

Drawing these lines is always much easier to do in theory than in reality. Building relationships with people is very important for success and advancement within careers. Additionally, we cannot help who we naturally click with, especially when we are in this close of proximity to each other.

It is almost inevitable that you form at least some relationships with the people that you go to school with and work with.

There have been times that people make comments that upset me or make me uncomfortable. When this occurs, I am extremely careful in how I react. Generally speaking, I am very outspoken and have no problems standing up for myself. However, when surrounded by future colleagues, I cannot always react the way that I would outside of this space.

I have to be very wary of the “angry Black woman” stereotype. This is particularly true when an individual who says something that upsets me is white. If I raise my voice, or show too much emotion, there is a higher likelihood of me being perceived as “aggressive” or “scary” even if I did not instigate the situation.

If the person I have conflict with is someone who I end up working with in the future, my reputation could be damaged before I even get there. I could be perceived as “angry” or “difficult” before getting the opportunity to interact with anyone.

Beyond anger, people who like to gossip could share personal aspects of my life with potential employers and future colleagues. This could also give potential employers and co-workers the opportunity to view me in an unprofessional light or have perceptions of me based on situations that have nothing to do with my job performance.

Therefore, it is much easier for me to just avoid certain social spaces altogether.

Race matters in regard to perception of emotions and interactions, and I have experienced many micro-aggressions throughout my life that have confirmed this. The rules are not the same for everyone, and

I do not receive the same grace in expressing my frustrations or anger as many of my peers. I have worked too hard to allow any drama to taint the professional reputation that I am building for myself, and distancing myself socially has been the best way for me to do this.

I am a very big believer in the importance of community, which is why I make pouring into my friendships a very large priority in my life. My friendships are everything to me because they are the spaces where I feel the most myself.

Among my friends outside of school, I do not have to police my interactions. I do not have to worry about the whole school finding out about my personal life. I do not have to worry about how my career may be impacted by how they perceive my emotions. I do not have to perform. I can just be me. This is simply not my reality in law school, and that is okay.

This is not to say that I feel as though the friends I have made here would ever do anything to harm my career or share my personal business with future employers/colleagues. However, the presence of that risk –no matter how low–is ultimately what makes me operate with more caution within my relationships here.

I am excited to see all the new connections that this profession will bring me in the future. I also look forward to finally figuring out how to navigate this balance between my professional life and social life.

The barriers that keep us out

Since coming to law school, I've had a theory that the institutions in place do everything they can to keep low-income, first-generation (defined as students who do not have at least one parents with a bachelor's degree) or otherwise diverse students out of the legal profession. Here's how: 

Undergraduate education

As we have discussed in class, even getting a bachelor's degree is a battle for many students who represent racial, ethnic and economic diversity. High-income, white families have more resources, leading to higher SAT scores than those from black or brown and low-income families. Without holistic review, or the now unconstitutional affirmative action, the student body in four-year colleges would be made almost entirely of students from white families who are middle class or wealthy. 

Even when diverse students get into college, it is an uphill battle to stay enrolled. Many students don't even try because they fear they can't afford it. Even if students receive the maximum financial aid, it may not be enough. With maximum financial aid, students in California will still need to pay up to $9,000 out of pocket. 

Law school admissions 

Law school applications are expensive. That's no secret. In addition to application fees for every school a student applies to, there are additional fees associated with transcripts, and processing fees through the Law School Admissions Council. Registering for the law school application system, the Credential Assembly Service (CAS), is $207 and the report generated by CAS is $45 per school application. These are all required fees to apply to a law school. Even more significantly, many schools require students to take the Law School Admissions Test (LSAT) to get into law school. Many students take the test multiple times, paying the exam fee each time. These fees may deter students from applying at all.

In addition, first-generation students underperform on standardized tests such as the LSAT. This means they are less likely to get into top schools even if they are able to take the LSAT. 

Even though LSAC offers fee waivers for some of the fees, these waivers are often hard to get. Indeed, getting the waivers often requires a level of self-advocacy and an awareness of relevant processes. My own experience and those of others' suggest that many people are denied the LSAC fee waiver the first time they apply, despite meeting the eligibility requirements. It is possible that first-generation students do not have the time or the resources needed to ensure they get the waivers. 

The summer position job search

The barriers do not end once first-generation students get into law school. Diverse students may be behind the curve in law school hiring. For one, high-paying big law positions are greatly concerned about class ranking and grades. First-generation students, as we've discussed in class, have to worry about family obligations and finances that other students do not. Thee may keep first-generation students from focusing solely on school. This, of course, affects their GPAs. 

Without top ranks and good grades, first generation students may not even be able to get their foot in the door with big law. However, public interest positions require sacrificing a high salary, which low-income students may not have the luxury of doing. 

In addition, many employers want to see prior legal experience, but the positions that provide that experience are often unpaid. Many first-generation students often cannot take on the unpaid legal internships that are available, and instead opt to work in non-legal positions that actually pay, such as customer service or retail positions.  

Finally, first-generation students often do not have the robust networks that continuing-generation students enjoy. Even when their job applications fall short, some students have networks on which they can rely to support them as they seek legal employment. 

The financial barriers don't end here. Once students are admitted, the often face rising law school tuition, and first-generation and low-income students may not have the financial support that other students have. Despite ending up in lower-paying jobs, these students are likely to be buried in student loan debt.

The differences are tangible. First-generation students are more likely to work in government positions, have lower employment rates, and go into private practice at lower rates than non-first-generation students. 

So what do we do about it? 

Honestly, I don't know. But what I do know is that there is power in highlighting these inequalities and how our experiences impact our performance even beyond the walls of UC Davis School of Law. I do also know that it is worth celebrating that despite these barriers in place, each and every first generation student at King Hall - and in law schools across the country - has done what seems to be the impossible. People may not know it, or understand the full range of barriers that keep us out, but we first-gen students do. We have all accomplished incredible, difficult things, and that is certainly worth celebrating.

Like father, like son

We read an excerpt from Michelle Obama's Becoming about her family, and particularly, her father's health complications. When I read about her father's obstinate pride, I couldn't help thinking of my dad.  I couldn't help thinking about the similarity of how difficult it is to ask and to offer help to a father.

I've written about my dad in previous blog posts. He immigrated to America when he was in high school. He couldn’t speak English and struggled in high school. Without any career prospects, he enlisted in the Navy for citizenship. Like a lot of our parents, he worked odd jobs, ranging from car salesman to computer hardware technician.

He became a math teacher when he was 40 years old and he loves it. He’s great at math and he’s great at teaching (anyone other than his kids). For the first time in his life, he was working at a job he enjoyed. 

I knew his most common complaint were his students who either didn’t show up or showed up and disrupted the classroom. I figured it was a common part of the job, and my father never told us anything more than his usual complaint about his disrespectful students. 

Last year, a family friend, who was the same age as my father, committed suicide. When something like this happens, there’s a morbid selfishness where we ask ourselves if it could have been us; if it could have been our family going through this tragedy. When the subject came up at a family dinner, my father finally revealed how much he had been struggling, and how he felt as if he was at his tipping point.

He told us that his students were walking all over him in his classroom. He wasn’t able to teach a single class without disruptive students, and he wasn’t being supported by his administration at all. He told us how, recently, his students started throwing markers, erasers, and water bottles at him whenever he turned around to write on the white board. He had to secretly record this behavior on his phone to turn over to his administrative faculty because they refused to do anything unless he had evidence. My mom didn’t even know these details. 

He assured us he would never harm himself, but I was so upset to hear that this had been going on for so long, and he never once informed his family. Older immigrants in America struggle with mental health and a lot of it goes undiscussed amongst older men. Part of me wonders how much the pressure of being a man and a father forces my dad to bottle it in.  And part of me wonders just how much of this stubborn pride I’ve picked up.

After my 1L year, I was confronted with the realness of my deteriorating mental health for the first time in my life. It could have been my pride or something old-fashioned in me, but I was always reluctant to recognize my mental health out of fear that it would become another excuse. I opened up to my friends and recalled how terrible I felt by the end of 1L, and how I felt like I was in a huge pit. 

Yet, I didn’t tell my family. Whenever my parents asked how difficult law school was, I would always respond by saying it’s tough, but I would take care of it. I didn’t want them to worry about their son who was living away from home for the first time, and I think I was trying to convince myself that I would be able to take care of it.

In Hillbilly Elegy, Vance writes about how much of his conflict style comes down to nature v. nurture. I asked myself the same question when it came to how I deal with stress and mental health. How much of my pride and reluctance to open up to my family is because of my father’s influence on me? What can I do to change this? 

In class, when we talked about what we could do to raise our family’s understanding of our struggles in higher education, I raised the point that we could be more transparent with our family. It feels hypocritical, but I think it’s a good idea. I don’t have to keep everything bottled in to be a “man.” Who knows, maybe by opening up and being transparent with my family, my dad might be encouraged to do the same.

If you give a first gen a responsibility...

One of my favorite books as a child was "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie." This popular picture book details the situation presented in the title: what would happen if you gave a mouse a cookie. First, he would ask for some milk to wash it down. Then, he would ask for a napkin to wipe his face. Then, he would want to look at himself in the mirror to make sure he was clean. Then, he would notice he needed a haircut. And so on and so forth. 

I am not a kindergarten teacher, nor do I have an English degree, so I am unsure of the intended message of the book. My takeaway as an adult is that if you are generous to someone, they may perhaps keep asking things from you until you can no longer give. Maybe it was my malleable childhood brain or my ambivalent/avoidant attachment style, but I have internalized this to mean that asking too much of others makes you a burden. 

A recurring theme in this class has been the grit that first-gen students often possess. Most of us have described our "I'll figure it out on my own" attitude, and we saw that reflected in a study of first-gen law students. We also heard from a guest speaker how the first-gen students she had interviewed demonstrated not taking advantage of resources in schools, such as office hours, because of a rural mentality associated with extreme self-sufficiency.

This semester, I had the honor of being elected Managing Editor ("ME") of the UC Davis Law Review. Being ME is my first higher up executive position since, well... ever. Having this position has made me question my perspective on responsibility, especially as someone with a first-gen mentality. This is an actual case of when you give a first-gen law student a responsibility -- rather than a cookie. 

The commitments for this position began the day I was elected. Within the first couple of hours after receiving the email, I was meeting with the new Editor-in-Chief to talk about tasks that needed to be done. That weekend, he and I met with almost all of our new editors over some 10 meetings. Since then, I have put on an info session and a panel and created many Google forms and an Instagram account, not to mention the organization meetings and class appearances I've attended with my DEI Editors and Projects Editor. 

I have not been given much instruction by the previous ME, or maybe rather I have not sought out the instruction necessary to feel well-prepared. Despite this, I have adjusted quite a bit, I started out in the position often crying and having anxiety attacks because I had no idea what I was doing. It seemed that, even when I asked for help from the previous ME, I was making mistakes that undermined others' confidence in my ability. 

With my first-gen mentality, I needed to figure it out on my own. I had always done so before, and why would that change now? I mean how hard could it really be juggling all of these emails and tasks? I told myself that I would be a burden to others if I asked for help. I needed to be perfect the first time, without help, or else I would see myself as a failure. 

Over the past couple of months in this position, I can think of maybe 2 or 3 times where I have delegated a task to someone else. Given the number of emails, forms, and events I am technically responsible for, I am realizing I need to get comfortable saying "hey, can you make this form for me?," or something similar. The Editor-in-Chief has appointed a Projects Editor whose entire position is to help me and the DEI Editors with events and recruitment, yet I have given her little to do. 

People see I am stressed and offer to help, but I really don't know what to tell them. If I can't do all of the things within the scope of my position, then what good am I? I wish I could say this post will inspire me to delegate more efficiently, but I am pretty sure that it won't. The attitudes are simply too ingrained to shrug off easily.

This attitude of extreme self-sufficiency has permeated many aspects of my schooling. It is the same mentality that keeps me from attending office hours. If I can't figure out the answer on my own, I tend to think, what good am I? I rarely ask my parents for money because, I tend to think, if I can't take care of myself, what good am I? 

Ironically, this has not yet carried into my professional life. I think that my fear of doing a bad job and being reprimanded overrides my anxiety to ask for help. I do worry, however, that I will be less willing to ask questions or delegate as I get more comfortable in my career. The first-gen mentality will no doubt persist for some time to come. 

If you give a mouse a cookie, he may never stop asking more and more of you. He may ask so much that you can't stand it. If you give a first-gen student a responsibility, they will likely thank you and figure it out on their own. 

If you give a first gen a cookie though. Well, to that, I would have no idea, but I don't think there's any way a first gen would ever be as demanding as the mouse.

“Big Law” Series: What does the "end" of DEI mean for students and "big law" job prospects? (Part III)

See Part I and Part II.

DEI and Big Law: Benefits of DEI initiatives 

In some ways, the elimination of law firm DEI programs will not significantly impact first-gen students' abilities to get "big law" jobs. Sure, these programs offer students a high-paying job and scholarship. But grades, achievements, and fit have and will continue to take precedence in hiring decisions. As a 2009 LCLD scholar states in his LinkedIn post, “[m]ost employers aren’t really in the business of hiring people who can’t do the work.” However, the elimination of law firm-DEI programs will influence accessibility and retention. 

For example, fewer first-generation students may be encouraged to apply for these spots because they do not hear about potential positions as firms cut their marketing budgets. Even for students who are not selected to participate in these prestigious programs, they get a competitive advantage by talking to law firm recruiters early in the process. Eliminating incentives to apply––like a hefty scholarship––may mean fewer first-gen applicants. Demand for "big law" jobs is also increasing as the Trump administration has eliminated the DOJ Honors program and other government work opportunities. 

Retention measures may also be at risk. Affinity organizations––groups which underrepresented minority individuals can join within firms––often help associates transition into big-law life. Advantages like meeting coworkers your first year versus second, learning the culture of the workplace, or understanding the structure of a law firm are exponentially beneficial to students who are the “first and onlys” in their families; they are, perhaps, lost on illegible students who come from a long line of attorneys or working professionals who can give them the same mentorship they would gain from an extra summer of work. 

First-gen law students will have to overcome many barriers, obstacles, and unknowns to get to law school, let alone to succeed in “big law:” taking the LSAT, completing several law school applications, purchasing suits, participating in "OCI," getting good grades, attending networking events, and more. Accessibility, in my opinion, is not defined as whether the application "door" is open. Accessibility connotes whether interested students are given equal opportunities to set goals; participate meaningfully in school- and workplace-culture; or control their careers.

Law schools should continue to use holistic measures to create a more diverse student population. This diversity is not limited to ethnic or socioeconomic diversity, though. It should be, as Justice O’Connor noted in the majority opinion of Grutter, “focus[ed] on academic ability coupled with a flexible assessment of applicants’ talents, experiences, and potential ‘to contribute to the learning of those around them.’” Id. at 315. The legal field––which, according to the ABA, has long been dominated by white (78% of the profession, 2024), straight (approx. 93% of the profession, 2023), able-bodied (approx. 98% of the profession, 2023) lawyers––is thus served by instituting these diversity measures. As long as financial and informational disparities exist, these DEI programs are justified.

Success is never permanent, and failure is never final: learn to love the climb

Success is never permanent, and failure is never final.

It’s my dad’s favorite quote and when I was younger, I rolled my eyes every time he said it. It felt like something he pulled out whenever I lost a game or didn’t get the award to cheer me up. At the time, it sounded like consolation for falling short.

But now, I hear it differently.

Now, I hear it as a truth about persistence. About what it means to grow up learning as you go. About the moments when you’re climbing with no guarantee there’s a peak ahead, only the belief that you keep going anyway.

That’s what being a first-generation law student has felt like. Showing up and trying knowing you could win or lose, but understanding that the real journey is getting up and trying again. Recognizing that the first time you fail won’t be the last time, but neither will the first time you succeed.

It reminds me of one afternoon, I was driving with my mom when Miley Cyrus’s “The Climb” came on the radio. She turned it up immediately and smiled.

“I used to listen to this every morning on my way to nursing school,” she said. “That’s how I got through it.”

I hadn’t realized how much that song meant to her or how much it would come to mean to me. Hearing it now, with her voice in my ear and the lyrics washing over us: 

There’s always gonna be another mountain / I’m always gonna wanna make it move.  

I understood. That’s what it means to come from a first-generation background. There’s always another mountain. And still, we climb. 

For her, it was nursing school. For me, it’s law school. Different mountains, carrying the same hopes and the same weight.

That weight was something Justin Quarry captured in his essay Coming Out as Working Class. The most emotional moment for me came when he imagined someone being there for his mother — someone to tell her she was good enough, that she belonged in college, that she had options. That image stayed with me, because it made me think of my own mom.

She’s told me before that her parents never came to her events. No games, no ceremonies. So when she became a mom, she made a promise to herself: she would always show up for her kids. And she did, every single time.

Plays, practices, honor rolls. I never once had to scan the crowd hoping to find her. My parents were always there, smiling, cheering. Just showing up.

That small decision, to be present, reminds me of Quarry’s hope: to be the person his students might need. To say, without needing to say it, I see you. You belong here.

My dad’s journey reminds me of that too. He was a first-generation college student and first-generation in a different way too: the first in his family to leave the reservation and navigate the outside world as a Native American.

He carried a different history and a different weight up his mountain. He didn’t have a map for his journey. He had to build it step-by-step walking alongside my mom.

Alejandra Campoverdi, in her memoir First Gen: A Memoir, writes:

When it comes to borders, whether they’re family patterns, social classes, or actual walls, the destination is secondary. The honor lies in the crossing.

That line gave language to something I’ve felt but never quite named. So often, our stories, especially as first-gen students, are told like tales of triumph, as if the value lies in having “made it.”

But Campoverdi flips that narrative. Our power isn’t in arrival. It's endurance.

Because the truth is, we live in the in-between. We cross from one world to another — from our families to our classrooms, from inherited silence to self-advocacy — carrying expectations, gratitude, and guilt, often all at once.

And still, we climb.

For my parents, they had to learn a lot together — crossing from traditions of staying close to family and walking familiar paths, to carving a new one of their own. My parents made their own path and I am not sure I would be walking mine today without that decision.

Campoverdi doesn’t frame that as something to hide. She calls it honorable. And that word has stuck with me.

Because when I think of my dad’s quote, or Miley’s lyrics, or Quarry’s story, or my mom’s promise to show up that’s what I see: not just resilience, but honor.

It reminds me of one of my favorite songs that has stayed with me: Andy Grammer’s “Wish You Pain.”

Grammer describes the kind of love that understands growth only comes through hardship. Through doubts that feel like monsters. Through lonely moments when no one else believes. Through putting everything you have on the line and still falling short.

This post by Isaac562 shows how the shows we grow up with, just like the songs we hold onto, can become powerful reminders of where we come from and how we keep climbing.

And maybe that’s what my parents have given me through their mistakes, their persistence, and their example. Not the guarantee of success, but the strength to rise after failure. Not a life without pain, but the heart to grow stronger because of it.

This post by ACM also highlights the powerful role that family and mentors play in the growth of first-generation students.

They didn’t shield me from the mountains. They taught me how to climb them.

We may never feel like we’ve fully “arrived.”

But maybe that was never the point.

Maybe it’s not about the destination.

Maybe it’s about the crossing.

Maybe it’s about learning to love the climb and all the lessons, strength, and honor that comes with it.

"Ines, I am about to start my last year of law school!"

As the "First and Onlys" in our families, we often self-impose on ourselves the need to balance our personal lives and goals with those of our family. The life of a First and Only is a perpetual balancing act. As former First Lady and lawyer Michelle Obama wrote in her book Becoming, in moments of hardship, we often try to “empower [ourselves] without making any sort of abrupt change,” hoping that our actions do not rock the boat of those around us. Yet, having to carry that burden alone is a terrifying experience. But what is fear to a first-generation child? Our lives are a constant recurring pattern of fear and having to conquer the “new” scenario. My colleague RK believes “[a]cknowledging this fear is part of the healing process.” I completely agree. 

This morning, I experienced a moment of introspection. When I first walked through the King Hall building, it was during Admitted Student Weekend. I was absolutely terrified. I had worked so hard for this moment, but here I was, scared of the unknown and feeling unprepared for the new hurdles law school would bring. I even considered not showing up. 

Despite these feelings, it was my moment to acknowledge my fear. All my life, I had asked others to be brave, but now it was my turn. I was here to keep a promise alive. I had made a powerful vow to someone I had never met but deeply admired. 

The individuals in my life are aware that I have wanted to go to law school and become an attorney since my first year of high school. When asked “why law school” by others, I always made a general comment like “I want to do justice!” or “I want to be a voice for those who are often silenced.” But very few actually know the complexity of that goal. Not even my closest friends or family know the true reason I decided to go to law school. As a child, I witnessed what can only be described as “injustices” involving my family. 

I was raised in a broken household. My mother was undocumented, while my father was a US citizen. In the years he lived with us, he constantly weaponized her undocumented status against her. Alongside this, his narcissistic personality continuously degraded my special-needs older brother and me as worthless scum who never amount to anything. What was most shattering was the illusion he wore so well: the perfect man, beloved by all who knew him––but, the pinnacle of evil to his own family. 

Still, those years of suffering could not compare to the day I lost my innocence, March 15, 2005. It was this day that I cultivated my hunger to shield those I love at all costs. It was the day that my mother lost her child, my baby sister, and the day I finally saw that this man had never truly been family.

On that spring day, my pregnant mother became extremely ill. Instead of going to seek professional care immediately, she was hesitant. Before she obtained a legal status, an overwhelming fear shadowed every move she made--so much so that she avoided doctors. She lived terrified that a single visit could lead to her being reported to ICE and torn away from her growing family. It was this fear that led her not to seek medical attention when she needed to. She gambled her health and hoped that the risk to my sister would be minimal. 

You may be asking yourself, “Why did she have such an overwhelming fear surrounding her legal status?” It was a horrific possibility, but one that my father constantly reminded her of. He did not just manipulate her. He poisoned her world with fear and paranoia, drilling into her mind that everyone was out to get her, all to keep her under his control. By the time she made it to the emergency room, it was too late for my baby sister. In that moment of seeing my mother’s pain, I became so angry. I felt completely powerless. Being trapped in my own helplessness only fueled my rage more.

For the next six years, my rage grew into something darker. I became hateful and resented the world for my mother’s misery. Any belief I had in a higher power withered away. After all, what kind of God would let something so cruel happen to a woman as strong, kind, and deserving as her? It was the constant reminder of the memory of her pain that motivated my anger to do something about our situation. 

At thirteen years old, something changed in me. I wanted to end my mother’s misery. One day, I confronted her, took her hand, and told her I would help her. She cried. I can only think that moment was very hard for her, but like many parentified children, one of our roles is to be the emotional support our parents need.

My mother didn’t have the support of her family and dealt with her misery alone. But in that moment, I decided to shoulder some of her pain. I took the day off from school and went to the family courthouse to request a restraining order and start the formal divorce process. My mother feared the unknown, but not only did I reassure her throughout the process, I also became her advocate. 

I was committed to obtaining “justice” for my family. The next few years were a battle for survival. My father would end up hiring a prestigious firm to represent him in family court, whereas my mother had only me. Regardless of our disadvantage, I ensured her voice echoed in that damn courtroom. I completed all her documents, assisted in gathering evidence, and even created notes of topics I wanted her to discuss during the hearings. 

Although the situation became very ugly, and there were days when I would come home from school not knowing whether I would see my family, I fought to keep my family together. Despite the nastiness of his lawyers, our work paid off: my mother was awarded full custody of my brothers and me, and we were issued restraining orders. Although this was a minor win that could not fix all our issues, seeing my mother’s reaction to me reading the judge’s final order made me realize I was placed in this world to be our family’s protector.

Today, I reflect on my childhood and my sister’s passing. I see these two things as intertwined by faith. Like other First and Onlys, being “diverse” was not a choice. My colleague nay asserts that our futures are not even under our own control. We didn’t choose to be born into the families we are dealt. 

As author Alejandra Campoverdi has emphasized throughout her book First Gen: A Memoir, the First and Onlys experience is constantly having to deal with issues outside of our control. It’s about refusing to back down in the face of injustice. It’s about standing tall, even when the world tries to break you. 

With that being said, I want to apologize to you, Ines. I’m sorry it took me 15 years to visit you. I’m sorry I could not do more for you. Please know I have never forgotten about your sacrifice, and although law school is still very scary, I will be brave for you. Our mother and brothers are thriving because of you. I thank you for the person I have become, and I hope you are proud of me.

A reflection on the hidden curriculum of strategic course registration and planning

As a "First and Only," I have found course registration in higher education to be a time of particular difficulty. It's easy enough to choose your classes on a shallow whim, simply picking those classes which align with either your interests or friends but, there's a hidden art to maximizing the impact of your course choices. Having recently completed another round of course registration, I can't help but think of opportunities my peers and I have to maximize our marketability which we miss out on due to having been the first in our family to go through this process.

My second eldest sister, Stephanie, entered our high school alma mater four years before me. She graduated and went off to college right before I entered high school. Before she went, she and a career advisor helped me understand electives and their prerequisites. I chose carefully and, in conjunction with extracurriculars, I was able to graduate with my diploma, as well as two "academy certificates." These allowed me to denote "with honors" on my diploma and resume.

Once again carefully planning my courses, I was also able to graduate from community college with three associate's degrees. Having gone to UC Davis rather than Santa Cruz, I wasn't as fortunate coming out of my undergraduate studies (especially considering the pandemic), and I was unable to complete my planned minor in Chinese Studies because I was not strategic in selecting and scheduling my elective classes. Taking the additional classes necessary to complete the minor would have required me to stay enrolled for just short of an additional year.

At UC Davis School of Law (King Hall), there are many similar opportunities for those who select their classes with consideration more comprehensive than merely meeting the minimum requirements needed to graduate. In particular, I would like to draw attention to the eight certificate programs available here at King Hall. This school provides certificates in a variety of concentrations, including Business Law; Criminal Law and Policy; Environmental Law; Immigration Law; Intellectual Property; Public Service; Tax; and Pro Bono.

The requirements for these certificates vary, but nearly all of them require completing a certain number of units along with foundational courses in the given concentration. Further, many of the courses overlap, making it a very feasible endeavor to earn one (or even two) of these certificates as a conscientious King Hall student. For example, a 2L who has already taken Federal Income Tax; Corporate Tax; and Trust, Wills and Estates; State and Local Tax has already gone a long way towards earning both the Business Law and Tax Certificates. There are also great commonalities between the requirements of the Immigration Law and Criminal Law Certificates. Also, those participating in the Public Service Law Program are nearly a shoeing for the Pro Bono Certificate.

Pursuing these certificates may require aspiring students to prioritize certain classes over others that may have drawn their interest. In my opinion, however, this sacrifice is well worth the cost. Legal certificate programs show employers and clients possession of specialized knowledge and/or passion in a particular area of law. This makes certificate holders more competitive in legal market. Possessing such accreditation may also ultimately allow an attorney to charge higher fees for their services. This is a pertinent consideration for paid and pro bono work, especially regarding claims and motions by which attorneys seek reasonable attorney's fees and costs (e.g. §1983 claims and motions to compel).

I hope my friends, as well as my fellow First and Onlys reading this, will consider whether these certificates can advance their careers--and that they will be strategic about taking the courses necessary to obtain one or more.

“Big Law” Series: What does the "end" of DEI mean for students and "big law" job prospects? (Part II)

Context: DEI initiatives and Equal Protection

Several of my law school courses have explored whether DEI initiatives are legal under the 14th Amendment––the Constitutional requirement to treat all individuals equal. Even if they are legal, do DEI initiatives propel marginalized individuals forward? Or is “‘[d]iversity,’ for all of its devotees, is more a fashionable catchphrase than it is a useful term, especially when something as serious as racial discrimination is at issue,'" as Justice Thomas posed in his concurrence in the 2003 Supreme Court case, Grutter v. Bollinger?

The job market in an evolving “Equal Protection” landscape

President Trump’s cabinet asserts that DEI initiatives are not legal. Several “big law” firms have been the subjects of Executive Orders commanding them to halt their DEI practices, forgo certain pro bono projects, and end relationships with partisan clients. What do the orders mean for first-generation students applying for post-bar jobs? Although many “big law” firms recognize value in these DEI initiatives and are fighting to keep them in place, a growing contingent of big law firms have acquiesced. To avoid an Executive Order, the capitulating firms have promised the Trump administration hundreds of "pro bono" hours worth millions of dollars. Other large law firms have (thus far) remained silent.

Big Law "Spine Index"

As a law student, my news feed is filled with reactions against those firms bowing down to the Trump administration: open letters by associates threatening resignation; "big law" partners initiating focus groups for other partners to act; or data suggesting 1L students applying to jobs are avoiding those firms. The American Bar Association, law school deans, and various law school faculty have also issued statements against the Trump administration's actions. These entities, or members of the entities, also recognize value in recruiting diverse, first-generation students to their firms. They also observe a sizable risk to that goal in eliminating these programs.

So, how does this affect first-generation law students seeking admissions at law schools?

This year is the most competitive year in history for getting into law school. Law school admissions offices often consider a variety of factors––such as GPA, LSAT (law school admissions test) score, undergraduate institution and area of study, and reasons for attending law school––when determining which students to admit and how much financial aid to award them. With DEI programs coming to an end, will law school admissions be impacted? 

In my opinion, they will not be impacted significantly, if at all. Law schools have been afforded wide leeway to institute holistic review of applicants in the admissions process. See Grutter, 539 U.S. at 346. Programs which DEI initiatives may have been useful to “counteract”––like college admission legacy programs––have been largely dismantled. 

In Grutter, then-Chief Justice Rehnquist (joined by Justices Scalia, Kennedy, and Thomas) asserted that the University of Michigan Law School’s DEI admissions statistics do not support its stated DEI goals. Id. at 380-84 (Rehnquist, J., dissenting). They argued that “the Law School’s disparate admissions practices with respect to these minority groups demonstrate that its alleged goal . . . is simply a sham.” Id. at 383.  Maybe, as Rehnquist asserted,  DEI programs are "dishonest and dangerous activity . . . [that has] undermin[ed] democratic . . . process[es]." 

Perhaps Rehnquist is right––that the end of these programs means less gaming by prospective law students or “big law” associates who feel invalidated by DEI application questions. There may be less stigma associated with vulnerable students; who are racial or ethnic minorities or low-income, and who may be cloaked with a feeling of unreservedness, a lingering question of: “Was it what I achieved despite my adversity or my diverse perspective that gained me admissions? Or am I merely an ‘aesthetic [that shapes] the Law School[‘s] certain appearance, from the shape of the desks and tables in its classrooms to the color of the students sitting at them[?]’” Grutter, 539 U.S. at n. 3 (Thomas, J., concurring in part); see also an Op-Ed in The Atlantic about this sensation (reflecting on the autobiography Reflections of an Affirmative Action Baby).  

I will delve further into this debate in Part III, which will address whether this may affect first-generation students breaking into “big law” as a first-generation law student at a “big law” firm. 

Growth is scary

In her book, First Gen: A Memoir Alejandra Campoverdi discusses a few experiences that “First and Onlys” deal with, including, the “Bicultural Balancing Act,” the “Trailblazer Toll,” and “Blindfolded Cliff Jumping.” These are all struggles that are often unique to the First and Only experience. However, there’s another struggle that I believe deserves more attention, the difficulty many First and Onlys have in taking pride in their accomplishments.

A lot of us First and Onlys don’t really know how to sit in our wins. We don’t celebrate them. We move past them quickly because, in our minds, they’re not really accomplishments but obligations. They’re what we had to do. Not just for ourselves, but for our families, for our communities, for the people who believed in us and sacrificed so much to get us here.

I remember when I got my first law school acceptance, from UC Davis. That moment should’ve been huge. After all the stress of studying for the LSAT, writing endless personal statements, and second-guessing every part of my application, all the work had finally paid off. And it was exciting. My parents, even with all the questions they had about how we’d pay for it, what loans would look like, where I would live, they made sure to let me know how happy they were for me. My family was proud. My friends were proud. Everyone around me kept telling me how big of a deal this was.

But honestly, what I felt most in that moment was relief. Relief that all the money, time, and energy I had spent on this process hadn’t been a waste. Relief that I wouldn’t have to explain to anyone why I didn’t get in anywhere. Pride was a distant feeling in that moment, overshadowed by practical worries about what getting into law school entailed. I didn’t let myself celebrate. Mostly because I didn’t know how.

This is the case for many First and Onlys. Accomplishments often feel less like personal victories and more like fulfilling a responsibility. We don’t stop to say, “Wow, I did that.” We just look for what’s next. It’s like we’re afraid to be too proud because it feels like there’s always more to prove. I am reminded of a quote from Michelle Obama’s Becoming in which she says, “This may be the fundamental problem with caring a lot about what others think: It can put you on the established path – the my-isn’t-that-impressive path – and keep you there for a long time.” Like Michelle Obama, many First and Onlys find themselves on a path in which they have to be the “most successful" because that is the path they have been on, the one people expect them to stay on.

However, as First and Only’s many of us have learned that one of the most important ways to not only survive but to thrive is through self care. Self care has a huge impact on our mental health. Practicing self care can look like setting boundaries, staying connected to yourself, and making yourself a priority. For many First and Onlys, especially those who come from immigrant families, self care is never taught. We didn’t grow up seeing people rest. We didn’t grow up hearing that it was okay to take a break. So now, when we try to do it for ourselves, it feels uncomfortable. It feels selfish. It feels like a fight.

Learning to take care of ourselves is a process. Learning to be proud of ourselves is a process. And both can be scary. But they matter. Because we deserve to feel joy in what we’ve accomplished, not just for what it means to everyone else, but for what it means to us.

Acknowledging this fear is part of the healing process. And so is learning to take pride in our journeys, not just the milestones, but the grit that got us there. We deserve to celebrate ourselves, not only because of what we've accomplished, but because of who we’ve become in the process. To all the First and Onlys reading this: your success is not just an obligation, it’s a testament to your strength. And I will always be proud of you and me!

"Dont Pass Me By"

Recently, our class was assigned an excerpt from Janet Mock's memoir, Redefining Realness. Mock, a transgender woman, discussed her struggles finding herself while navigating the preconceived definitions other people had set for her. 

The excerpt was amazing, and I immediately added the book to my Goodreads list. Still, there was one quote that Mock wrote that really hit home: "When I think of identity, I think of our bodies and souls and the influences of family, culture, and community. . ."  Though I don't share Mock's struggles, it was something about her writing that drew me into her memoir. 

And that's when I realized what it was.  

I had just returned from visiting my family in L.A. and was hit with both writer's block and fatigue, having driven six painful hours on the 99 freeway running through California's Central Valley. My wife was soundly asleep in the passenger seat, taking her role as "passenger princess," and my dog was curled up in his bed in the rear seat, sleeping to the white noise of the rumbling freeway as we crawled our way back home. 

And then there's me, having drunk two mini Coke cans for a little sugar rush and blasting my Spotify, skipping through songs, trying to find the ones where I can belt out my best "Carpool Karaoke" performances for my non-existent fans. In between songs, watching the white reflectors on the highway take the form of little fireflies in the distance, I had come to terms with why I was sad about leaving. 

Maybe it was Mock's quote or Bad Bunny's latest hit "DtMF", but somewhere in between that time, I realized I am a product of my experiences, struggles, and all. This was not helped by the fact that I just borrowed a copy of Michelle Obama's memoir, Becoming, from a great friend of mine, only for the prologue to say the exact same thing. 

For me, the hardest part about visiting home isn't the drive or the past memories of my hardships; it's the reality that life goes on. Every time I see my siblings, they're also growing up, forging their own paths, and it feels like a time machine where life just fast forwards in front of you. As Ringo Starr eloquently puts it, "don't pass me by, don't make me cry, don't make me blue..."

Earlier, I alluded to Bad Bunny's song "DtMF" from his latest album "DeBI TiRAR MaS FOToS." The album itself is an homage to past generations of Puerto Rico, and according to NPR, features political messages against the gentrification of the island. The song, which shares the name of the album, translates to "I should have taken more photos," a sentiment most of us share when we get nostalgic, remembering the past. 

Listening to the album on the drive and reading Mock's memoir made me realize that first-gen students can be defined by their struggles to obtain higher education. Some of us have lived through a combination of traumatic experiences, poverty, and impostor syndrome. Going through the motions and feeling forced to write about these experiences can make us feel like these struggles define us.  As Elijah Megginson wrote for the New York Times in a guest essay, "trauma is one of life's teachers. We are molded by it, and some will choose to write about it urgently, passionately." However, Megginson offers an alternative approach, and that is to "... open your mind to all the other things you can offer in life..."

When I first thought about being labeled a first-gen student, it was always to relive my hardships, be defined by my cultural struggles, and the lack of generational wealth. Being in this class taught me that being first gen has come with so many advantages that weren't wrapped in adversity.

For one, it's meeting new people, each with their own unique stories and experiences, learning how we all came to be in the same seminar from completely different paths in life, but with similar stories. It's the feeling of cultural identities and coalition building where I feel proud of where I'm from, but also have learned to appreciate the little things that come with living in a smaller town like Davis. 

Meeting all of my classmates in this seminar has led me to appreciate my life experiences for what they were. Sure, there were hardships and adversity, but there was also good sprinkled there every now and then. From appreciating Grand Central Market for its culture before being gentrified, to visiting the Flower District every other weekend for a new set of flowers, I realized I was fortunate to have lived through those experiences in the first place. Without them, I would not be the person writing this blog or the person you see in the hallways of King Hall. 

Those memories are why I get sad thinking about how I dwelled only on the adversity from my past and feel like life passed me by. My new outlook has me feeling happy while listening to what my family has been up to since I moved out, but also sad knowing I wasn't there to experience those memories. My life experiences have helped me look to the present, enjoy the moments while they last, and hug my loved ones despite the hardships because I don't know when I will get to see them again. It's the reason why I don't want to live a life with regrets of not being able to say "thank you for always watching the news and teaching me about current events," because I was too embittered by the fact that I wasn't raised in wealth. Without these moments, I wouldn't be here writing to you all about how I'm proud to be first gen, not because my struggles taught me my worth, but because of the happy memories I had getting to law school. 

Law school taught me the law, but my firsts taught me about me

Law school changes you in ways you expect, through intense coursework, long readings, and the pressure to perform. But perhaps more importantly, it also surprises you in quiet, unexpected ways. 

For me, the most meaningful parts of my law school journey came from deeply personal firsts. As I prepare to graduate, I want to take a moment to reflect on these experiences. 

My “First” Haircut

My parents are Sikhs from Punjab, India. 

Sikhi emerged in a region shaped by spiritual diversity and conflict, grounded in values like equality and resistance to oppression. From Mughal and British colonial regimes to the Indian government’s involvement in Operation Blue Star and the 1984 anti-Sikh Riots, those in power have repeatedly attempted to erase Sikhi because its very commitment to sovereignty, social justice, and egalitarianism threatens their authoritarian control.

My parents lived through the 1984 anti-Sikh Riots in India and carried that trauma with them when they immigrated to America. They were determined to protect the faith our family and ancestors fought so hard to preserve. That commitment shaped how they raised my siblings and me.

My siblings and I were born Sikh and raised with its core values. When I was in elementary school, my parents took amrit, a sacred initiation that requires stricter adherence to Sikh practices. That included keeping their hair uncut and following a disciplined spiritual path.

From that point on, my siblings and I began observing those practices, too. We did it out of love and respect for our parents, and because we lived in the same household. But as we grew older and started forming our own identities, some of those practices began to conflict with how we wanted to live.

For me, that internal conflict became harder to ignore during law school. I often felt out of control in class, in life, and within myself. My hair became a daily reminder that I could not even choose how I looked, because I was afraid of upsetting my parents.

The last time I had my hair cut was as a child, before my parents took amrit. After a lot of reflection, I finally gathered the courage to get a haircut as an adult. As a first-generation law student, I had spent years learning how to advocate for others while slowly learning how to advocate for myself, but this was the first time I was bold enough to act on what I needed.

It was not an act of rebellion, nor was it a rejection of my faith. It was an act of self-determination. I was not rejecting my faith but trying to live it in a way that honored both my values and my individuality.

It was the first time I truly felt like an adult making a decision for myself. 

My First Swim Lessons and Camping Trip

Growing up low-income, swimming and camping were luxuries we could not afford. Even when there were affordable options to participate in these activities, my immigrant parents often hesitated. These experiences were unfamiliar to them, and they believed money could be better spent elsewhere.

After my haircut, I felt emboldened to start living life more fully and on my own terms. I had more financial stability and more freedom, and I wanted to take advantage of the opportunities I never had access to growing up. For the first time, I felt ready to explore parts of life that had always felt just out of reach. 

During 2L, I signed up for the swimming lessons offered through the undergraduate recreation program. I am no Olympic swimmer, but I can now float and move through the water with confidence. That alone felt like a victory.

Then, during 3L, I enrolled in the California Environmental Cases and Places course. All summer, I debated whether to drop it. I was nervous that I would not be cut out for camping, especially since I was not in the best shape.

But something in me did not want to back out. Fear was no longer a good enough reason to turn away from something new.

I decided to stay in the course. I spent four days camping and learning about California’s environmental issues directly from the people and places most impacted. It was exhausting, humbling, and grounding in a way I had never experienced before.

I came back with sore legs and a full heart.

My First Estate Planning Job Offer

Even after my haircut, even after learning to swim and sleeping under the stars for the first time, life did not follow a perfect upward arc. Growth came in waves, not straight lines. Some of my most meaningful firsts revealed themselves only after disappointment settled in. 

In my first blog post, I wrote about wanting to break into estate planning and how that path did not come easily. I met with a career services advisor, hoping for guidance, but walked away feeling discouraged and disheartened. 

I wish I could say that moment lit a fire in me to prove everyone wrong. Instead, the truth is that I went home and cried. 

I felt stuck and hopeless. I was convinced I would have to return to my 2L summer job and move back home. I was not looking forward to going back to that environment. For a while, I did nothing except try to cope with my reality.

Then, without any sign or warning, the stars aligned once more. 

In class, my Trusts, Wills, and Estates professor shared that a firm had reached out looking for students with an interest in estate planning.

I took a chance and reached out in January. I was not even sure it would lead to a real interview. But that email turned into a first-round interview in February, followed by a second-round interview in April, and finally, a job offer the very next day. 

Rejection can hurt. But hope has a quiet way of returning when you least expect it.

Carrying These Firsts Forward

These firsts reminded me that growth is rarely loud or immediate. Sometimes it begins quietly, in the background of doubt or fear. Sometimes it looks like trying something unfamiliar, or making a decision that feels like your own for the first time.

To anyone still in law school, or considering the journey, I hope you create space to explore your own firsts. Whether your dream is to become a lawyer or to take a different path entirely, go for it and have fun along the way. Try everything and anything life offers.

Allow yourself to have your firsts. In fact, go have a first every day. Better yet, be the first.