Lifelong protectors learning to rely on others

"Family comes first – because that’s all we have." These words from my mother represent foundational principles I refuse to compromise. As a young child, this phrase always hovered over me, telling me how to act and treat others, what to value in life, and most importantly, who to protect. During challenging times, this standard seemed like an insurmountable task—I was just a kid trying to do normal kid things while also bearing the responsibilities of an adult.

Living up to this phrase required me to step up to any occasion that called me to action. It meant embracing challenges with courage whenever the situation demanded my involvement, despite the genuine fear I had in the moment.

Because of this phrase, I often found myself on the frontlines of my family’s problems, hoping every conflict would be resolved with the best solution possible but always preparing for the unexpected. Today, like many other first-generation professionals from mixed-status households, I struggle with relying on others for help, often grappling with the ingrained belief that I must navigate my problems alone and maintain hyper-independency. These feelings are often associated with parentification, a common experience with many children of immigrant families.

A parentified child is when a child is forced to take the role of a supportive adult within their family, often due to uncontrolled circumstances rather than through any fault of the parents. This role reversal is not necessarily indicative of parental neglect but rather a transformation of the child’s responsibilities that, I believe, can profoundly impact their development into adulthood and how they interact with the world.

I have noticed that in higher academia, parentified children are often described as resilient and groundbreakers. We are considered individuals who, against all odds—escaped some petrified generational trauma, whether that harm is social, economic, etc. We are paraded for our achievements but rarely are our journeys recognized by others, and even if they are, hardly any listener can truly understand the depth of our experiences. I think this detachment is one of the reasons why I, and many others with similar upbringings, remain unable to fully abandon our tendency to be hyper-independent.

After my parents separated, I became the family’s legal researcher and problem solver, my mother’s interpreter, and my younger brother’s daily caretaker. Like many children of mixed-status households, the pressure was very real to me. I was expected to navigate whatever forms or documents that required my attention. The way I spoke to others always needed to sound as professional as possible so that my role as a liaison would be taken seriously. In the moment, I was often proud of how I could empower the voices of my loved ones. Here we are, a household headed by a single mother with three boys, navigating the problems of the world alone. But today, I recognized that I was lying to myself.

Whenever my own problems came up, I often felt that I needed to handle them alone – very rarely seeking and actually avoiding others for help. Being independent was a way of easing the burden on my loved ones. But I was self-aware that my experience was not normal. I often wondered what a normal childhood was supposed to look like. I knew that my friends, who were predominantly white and middle-class, didn’t have the same problems as me.

Of course, the concept of a “normal” childhood can be elusive and varies widely across cultural and social contexts, especially in places as diverse as the United States. But to my imagination, a “normal” childhood meant avoiding expectations and responsibilities and living carefree of the anxiety associated with being a leader in my family.

Admittedly, the role of a parentified child is a weird one. In the eyes of the outside world, we are viewed merely as children, yet within the confines of our families, we are thrust into roles that carry the weight and responsibilities typically reserved for adults. This duality places us in a unique, quasi-adult status that is neither fully child nor completely adult, straddling a blurred line between two very different sets of expectations. For example, first-generation students who are parentified are often juggling expectations to perform well in school while also providing the emotional and instrumental support our loved ones need.

Today, I have met other law students who resonate with my experience. Others who shared childhood expectations and pressures, individuals who can truly understand the lived complexity of a former parentified child. In one way, our intimate conversations feel like merely trauma dumping on each other, but these conversations also serve as a therapeutic mechanism to acknowledge our successes through the help of others.

I believe that the sense of belonging that comes from visual representation in spaces often considered exclusive has been a powerful tool for boosting confidence among first-generation professionals. I’ve witnessed this impact firsthand through the mentor-mentee relationships that I and others have formed, illustrating to me how crucial it is to see oneself reflected in these environments. My law school community serves as allies against my tendency to be hyper-independent.

Being able to have conversations with other law students has caused me to reflect on whether being a parentified child was actually a bad thing. With everything considered, if given the opportunity to change the past, I do not think I would change anything. After all, I believe being a parentified child fueled my ambition to become the first in both my immediate and extended family to attend college and eventually law school. I have a healthy relationship with my partner because I know firsthand what an unhealthy relationship looks like. I’m financially literate and can manage money because of past instabilities. As adults, former parentified children are powerful individuals who can be empathic while maintaining the strength to navigate the world for themselves and others. As a community, we are unstoppable.

First-gen guilt: the emotional toll I carry as a first-gen student

The Guilt of Missing Out 

Breaking barriers often requires leaving a self behind, and reinventing yourself in an attempt to fit into where you're going. Not only does this create a divided self, who you are at home and who you are at school, it requires that you no longer fill the role of your old self at home. This might leave a gap in the family, creating tension in your own relationships back home, but it also takes a toll on the student. 

I am often made to feel guilty for experiences that I never could have imagined, traveling out of the country, skiing, learning to golf. However, what I wish my family could understand is the guilt that I feel being away from them and not being able to care of them in the way that I always have as an adult. I feel like a bad daughter, and a bad sister. Like I'm missing the biggest parts of my little sister growing up. Like I have left them behind because I do not know how to bring them with me. 

While I am still low income, I often wonder how I could live like this, going to fancy parties and golfing, when my family is struggling at home. In addition to imposter syndrome, this guilt often manifests in working hard and not taking enough breaks or taking care of myself. I do this to make sure that leaving them behind was not for nothing, and that even if I did go to law school back home I couldn't be a good sister, daughter, or granddaughter to them anyways. 

 The Need to Prove Yourself

"If I don't do it, no one else will." 

I have lived by this for as long as I can remember. If I didn't ask about the SAT, no one was going to come help me. My parents wouldn't have reminded me. If I didn't ask about college application fee waivers, no one else would ask for me. I have been on my own since before I was even a legal adult, and I lived by the idea that if something needed to get done, it was on me to do it. It was on me to make sure that bills were paid, that I had food to eat, and that the house was clean. 

It came as no surprise to me that it was on me and only me to get myself to college, and then through college, and then a job and then to law school. This independence was financial, emotional and literally. My family has not always been the most supportive, and I was told that if I wanted to go to college, I was on my own even if it was what they wanted from me too.

From that day on, I was determined to do everything on my own. This included being headstrong in my independence, turning down help from others, and never using my extenuating circumstances as an excuse to fall short. I carried this independence and responsibility with me to law school, and I found myself over-preparing for class because if I couldn't answer the questions or raise my hand, no one else would. I did not want to let down my professors. 

I began to feel pressure that if I didn't raise my hand when no one else would, I would have let the class down and disappointed the professor. I explained this to my mentor that I had to prepare for class in case no one else wanted to participate, and she identified that this is my first-gen guilt, which includes a need and desire to prove myself to everyone around me, including my family, and take on the responsibility when I am uncomfortable or afraid of others falling short. 

I recognized this same guilt in Campoverdi's First Gen: A Memoir in Chapter 1. Campoverdi's resolve on her first day of work that from that day forward she must be the first and best reminded me of this feeling of responsibility and guilt that comes with the possibility of letting others down. 

The Shame and Isolation 

There's a guilt that comes with taking up space. The need to apologize for asking questions and for making appointments when we need a little more help than the others. There's also a shame in admitting that you need that help. This guilt and shame often isolates me from my peers, while I also feel isolated from my family and ashamed for living my life. 

It's an uncomfortable position to be in, to feel guilt for being away from my family, but to feel guilt for taking up space in our new world, and first-gen students are not well-equipped to handle this guilt. How can students grapple with the guilt experienced on both sides of the lives they are straddling?