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.

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. 

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.

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.

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!

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.

Trailblazer tolls: risks, rewards, costs, and benefits

Over the last week, I've been thinking a lot about the "blindfolded cliff jumping" metaphor Alejandra Campoverdi continuously uses in her memoir. Campoverdi uses the term to refer to the experience first-generation students have in breaking educational barriers. The phrase is meant to evoke feelings of danger, adrenaline, and possibility.

We all have different tolerance levels for risk. While I would never be personally comfortable taking on the level of risk Campoverdi describes in her journey to D.C., going to law school is still a risk. Choosing to be the First and Only in your family to pursue a higher level of education is daunting for a number of reasons. 

Being the First and Only in your family to go to law school is an intimidating financial risk. According to a survey conducted by the American Bar Association, the median amount of debt taken on by a law student is $112,000. I'm willing to bet this amount trends higher among First and Onlys, who often don't have the same familial wealth many other law students do to fund their education, nor do they have the same access to merit scholarships.

Honestly, I didn't realize the extent of the potential for debt coming in to law school. Or, I may have realized the extent of the debt but figured everyone graduating law school was handed out fancy, high-paying jobs immediately after graduation. 

Although the six-figure median salary ($106,744 in CA) for first year attorneys is a figure that would have impressed me previously, I'm not sure it is enough to justify the cost of law school. In fact, according to Education Data Initiative, an organization that provides research and resources to tackle the rising costs of higher education, less than half of new law school graduates say their education was worth the cost. In other words, the six-figure salary that might appear plentiful on the outside comes at a literal cost. 

Blindfolded cliff jumping isn't the only trailblazer toll. Being the First and Only also means you must leave home. Saying goodbye, even if it's temporary, is no easy thing to do. In order to pursue higher education, many of us are forced to leave our social support systems -- our friends and families -- that helped us get here. This affects us, but it also affects them. 

A few days ago, my best friend back home told me that she was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. Her test results were released to her, online, a day before her doctor's appointment. She opened them and told me what they said. The next morning, she had to walk into that appointment alone. That killed me.

Because I live four hundred miles away, there was nothing I could do. I wasn't able to hold her hand; I wasn't able to hug her and tell her everything was going to be okay; and I sure as hell wasn't able go with her to that appointment.

This isn't the only time I have dealt with this type of situation. In the middle of the second semester of 1L year, my dad became unwell after a surgery. He lived alone, so I left Davis and the demands of law school to take care of him for the weekend. This decision affected my performance on my midterm exams, which were the following week. This was not even a consideration in my mind when I decided to leave, but that decision had consequences. Following the exam, I visited the professor's office hours to talk about my concerns. She told me to leave my worries about home behind. To not look back. To not engage or worry about anything going forward that isn't law school. But how could I possibly do that?

The guilt that accompanies leaving the ones you love can be paralyzing, especially when you're not able to be physically present during their time of need. The demands from home don't stop, even if we are hundreds of miles away. "Hillbilly Elegy" demonstrated the conflict between the competing needs of career advancement and the health and safety of family members. When Vance got the call that his motner had overdosed while he was at a networking event, his sister pleaded with him to come home. Vance dropped what he was doing and made the hours-long journey home to pick up the pieces. 

I wish I could have done more for my friend in her moment of need. I wish I could have dropped everything and gone to that doctor's appointment with her. But I didn't, and I feel guilty for that. Ultimately, she is going to be okay. The survival rate for the form of thyroid cancer she has is nearly 100%. That the odds are in her favor, though, does not detract from the fact that I wasn't able to be there for her when she needed support. 

Is this fair? Probably not. I guess none of it is. Leaving home is hard, and leaving home when you know your friends and family need you is even harder. Although this conundrum is not unique to first-generation students, their friends and families may be less understanding of their geographic departure an inability to provide constant support. I'm not sure where the balance between being a good student and a good person lies. What do we owe those who helped us get to where we are? Not just because we owe them, but because we love them. 

My privilege

“Go to school, we didn’t, and now we regret it”

This is something I have heard from my father since I was a child in elementary school.

My family immigrated to the United States when I was three years old. We moved to Dos Palos, California, a small town with a population of less than 5,000 in 2004. We were fortunate that, despite the town's small size, there were a few other Punjabi families who lived there due to its location in the Central Valley.

I don’t remember much about living in Dos Palos, but I do remember my school. From what I recall, I loved it. I enjoyed learning new things and coming home and telling my family all about it. Even though English wasn’t my first language, I started learning it at an early age, so I didn’t struggle much with language barriers.

When I was six years old, my family moved to a new city. Due to how often my family moved within this city, I ended up going to five different elementary schools. Being the new kid almost every year wasn’t easy, but the one constant that kept me grounded was my love for learning. I knew even if I wasn’t making new best friends every time I moved, I would still be one of the most studious kids in class because I loved school so much. Being good at learning was my one constant.

My parents were proud to have a child who loved school. Both my parents attended school in India, but neither finished middle school. My mom dropped out in seventh grade due to family problems and my dad dropped out in eighth grade because the conditions at his school were so poor. To my parents, public education in the United States was the best opportunity they could offer their children. They instilled in me the ideal that I should never complain, but rather be thankful for the chance I had. “Go to school, we didn’t, and now we regret it.” Hearing this from my dad motivated me to push myself harder, and I would say it is one of the many reasons I have pushed myself all the way to law school.

In her book, First Gen: A Memoir Alejandra Campoverdi discusses the unique challenges that First and Onlys face, one of them being the “Lonely Hustle.” Campoverdi describes the First and Onlys experience as a “Lonely Hustle” because no one in our families can understand the struggles and journey we are going through. My love for school because of its familiarity in my life and my parent’s lack of familiarity with school made it a very lonely journey.

While my story may not mirror every First and Onlys experience, the “Lonely Hustle” is a common experience for my first gen peers. Whether it’s through finding community or developing boundaries, we all have learned to utilize different tools to cope with this loneliness.

One of the most important tools in my toolkit is my ability to realize what a privilege higher education is. Less than 5% of the U.S. population has a professional or doctorate degree, and that is the group we are striving to join. While obtaining this degree will come after many trials and tribulations for all of us, I can’t help but remember my parents and remind myself what a blessing it is to chase my dreams. I remind myself that, despite the hurdles I face in pursuing a legal career, at least I have the opportunity to do so. Even though sometimes I have to look far and wide to find the resources that will be beneficial to me, at least I know where to look. That is not the case for many people, especially individuals like my parents who do not speak English and always struggle with understanding the American legal system.

None of this is to say that the United States higher education system and the American legal system are without flaws. Of course, First and Onlys are entitled to express frustration with how complicated and elitist these fields can be. However, there are moments when we must recognize how fortunate we are to have the opportunity to chase our dreams. As I continue my journey, I hold onto the lessons my parents taught me, reminding myself that every challenge I face is part of a greater privilege.

The difference work ethic can make

When I was 17 and preparing for a college admissions interview my dad and I were bouncing ideas back and forth when he suggested that I be forthcoming in my interview that academic achievement doesn't come as easily to me as it does to some. He said that my accomplishments were a result of the tremendous effort I had put into school. At the time I took this comment as a slight on my ability, but I have come to see the value and truth in what he said.

The middle school I attended was located in a wealthy part of the town; I did not live in that upscale area, and got a spot through the school's "lottery" system. Before I realized just how hard I had to work to succeed academically, my grades fell somewhere close to the 50th percentile of my peers. I got mostly B's and some A's. The grades didn't matter much to me until, one day, there was a school-wide ceremony celebrating different honor roll distinctions became a wake-up call. 

All of my (admittedly nerdy) friends received the "Gold Honor Roll" distinction. But not me. As ridiculous, vain, and snooty as it might sound, I remember being called up to receive my "Silver Honor Roll" certificate and looking left and right to my peers, and thinking "is this who I want to be?" I felt embarrassed. It was at that moment that I decided I was going to do whatever it took to be going up with the "Gold" group the next trimester.

I started participating in after-school study groups, took on extracurricular activities that bolstered my understanding of class material, and spent more time learning the material on my own. With a lot of extra hours, I did get the "Gold" distinction the following trimester... and every trimester after that.

This work ethic persisted throughout the remainder of middle school and high school, though I still felt ashamed that things didn't come as easy to me as they did to my wealthy peers. With a tremendous amount of effort, I finished ranked 11th in my high school graduating class (just shy of top 10, which is a classic "me" moment). By the end of high school, as a means of protecting my own ego, I identified more with my academic accomplishment than the effort it took to get there. 

In college I was faced with a harsh reality of having a new group of peers: the level of natural ability of those surrounding me was like nothing I had experienced before, and I hadn't realized the extent to which my effort would have to increase to match their pace. Neither of my parents had experienced this themselves, so nobody had warned me. As a consequence of my failure to understand the simple notion that college was harder than high school and would therefore require more effort, my first quarter of college left me on academic probation with a 1.9 GPA. 

This was a wake-up call. I changed the way I studied, sought out campus resources (especially for my Chemistry and Calculus courses), and began studying in groups with peers. I turned the metaphorical ship around and ultimately graduating with honors.

Entering law school, I had absolutely no experience in the legal field. As a first generation law student, I had no idea of the academic and professional advantage of coming in with legal assistant or paralegal experience. When it came time to interview for my first summer job, I had nothing on my resume besides the menial jobs I worked in high school and college, most notably at McDonalds. I was embarrassed by this. How was I supposed to compete with my peers, some who had spent years working in law firms as paralegals or administrative assistants?

My first interview was with a law firm based in Sacramento. The firm partner asked me the dreaded question: what legal experience did I have. I had none, and I told him so. I suppose he knew this, because he replied saying that was the reason he chose to interview me over other candidates. More explicitly, he told me that seeing "McDonalds" on my resume told him I knew how to work. Go figure. 

My experience is not an isolated one, especially for first generation students. The reading that inspired this post was Michelle Obama's Becoming. In her memoir, Obama briefly discusses her academic experience in comparison to that of her peers. Despite being a good student, she always felt like there were others ahead of her "whose achievements seemed effortless," but with "with hours of studying [she] could often close that gap."

The things I perceived to be holding me back-- my lack of professional experience and the way I had to work 50% harder than everyone around me to accomplish the same things-- ended up working in my favor. My lack of professional experience was interpreted as having a strong work ethic, and my ability to put my head down and get the job done has seemed to be an invaluable skill in the field of law.

As many other students have noted in their blog posts, status as a first generation student status is a signal of "ambition and resilience." Although we (or maybe just I) find it easy to focus on the challenges of being first gen, the status signals much more than disadvantage. First-generation status suggests a strong work ethic, diligence, and attention to detail that have been necessary to get us to get to where we are today.

What my eight-year-old sister taught me about imposter syndrome - integrity, discipline, and the excitement to try again

I struggle with the fear of not knowing enough. I struggle with the possibility of failure and the fear of not being able to hold my own hand through it. I struggle with imposter syndrome.

When you’re the first to do something, the first in your family to go to college, the first to step into a career path, you carry the weight of uncertainty. You walk into rooms where no one looks like you, where no one seems as flustered as you, and where everyone appears to have a roadmap but you. There is no familiar voice to turn to for reassurance, no safety net of lived experience to tell you, “Yes, this is how it works!” or “You’re doing the right thing.”

Psychologists Pauline Clance and Suzanne Imes, who first coined the term impostor phenomenon, described it as the persistent fear of being exposed as a fraud despite evidence of success. Their research showed that many high-achieving individuals, particularly women, lived in a constant state of self-doubt, convinced that their achievements were due to luck or deception rather than ability.

This post by Anjali Mistry explores the impact of impostor syndrome on women in the workforce, particularly in law, and the role of mentorship in overcoming self-doubt.

For me, that persistent fear is all too familiar. And yet, the thing that has cured my imposter syndrome time and time again is the perspective of an eight-year-old girl who means the world to me—my little sister, Shandiin. Her name is Navajo for sunshine, and she is exactly that: a warm, comforting light, illuminating a path forward.

For an eight-year-old, she carries a lot of fear. She gets anxious about being late. She is reluctant to try new foods. She is scared of failure, as most kids are. But the remarkable thing about her isn’t her fear, it’s what she does despite it.

Recently, she competed in her first taekwondo tournament. It was a huge deal because she was new to the sport. My parents recently moved from Texas to California. In Texas, she took karate, but taekwondo is different. Different forms, different goals, different stances. Yet in just six months, she embraced an entirely new discipline.

I love watching her practice because I can see how much she wants it. She is a typical energetic, silly kid, always joking and playing. But in practice, she is different. She stands still, listens intently, absorbing every movement her instructors make. She isn’t just present—she is studying. And before we knew it, she had won her studio’s award for integrity.

During class, when the kids were told to complete their moves and sit when finished, some sat down early, following the crowd. But not Shandiin. It didn’t matter if she was the last one standing—she completed every move to fruition. She wasn’t afraid of being slower because she was focused on doing it right.

Her integrity and discipline is why she was chosen for the tournament training team despite being new to the sport. 

But she was hesitant to join. She didn’t know what a tournament looked like. She didn’t know if her skills matched up. No one in our family had ever done taekwondo, so we had no wisdom to pass down.

Sound familiar? It’s the first-gen experience in a different form.

You step into spaces where no one before you has gone. There’s no advice to lean on, no “this is what I learned” to guide you. You study those around you, listen closely, and try to decipher the unspoken rules. You wonder if you belong. You wonder if you’ll be good enough.

But then, you show up anyway.

That’s what Shandiin did. When she came home from her tournament after placing third, she wasn’t most excited about her medal—she was excited to try again. She went on and on about the next competition, about how she had observed the sparring category, one she had been hesitant to try, so she could be more familiar with it next time. She was already thinking about what she would do differently.

She wasn’t discouraged by her inexperience. She was making a plan to tackle a challenge instead of giving up on herself. And the next week, she was back at practice. Same energy. Same drive. Same willingness to learn.

Watching her, I realized: this is how you beat imposter syndrome, in tournaments and in life.

You don’t count yourself out because you’re afraid of being inexperienced. You don’t let the unknown stop you. You step in, watch, learn and try. You might fail, but that’s just an opportunity to learn and try again with new knowledge and perspective.

This post by SC also discusses challenging your feelings of uncertainty to learn and grow.

And when you do, you don’t just shine a path for yourself — you make it easier for those who come next.

Shandiin isn’t just teaching me some of her taekwondo moves in our living room. She’s teaching me how to step into the unknown and see it as an opportunity to grow. She is teaching me how to trust myself even when I don’t have all the answers. She is showing me that the best way to defeat imposter syndrome is with integrity, discipline, and the excitement to try again.

Life is too short not to do scary things

 "Do something that scares you every day." This advice has stuck with me since the day I heard it from City Council Member, Quirina Orozco, when she spoke at a Filipinx Law Student Association event. Orozco's story touched my heart and the hearts of everyone in the room. She narrated her time growing up in Sacramento with her single, teenage mother. Orozco explained how she had a tumultuous high school experience and did not have any plans of attending college until her high school counselor encouraged her to try applying to Berkeley. 

Despite being a first gen student and not knowing how to apply to college, Orozco went on to attend UC Berkeley as an undergrad AND get a master's degree in public policy from Harvard University. She mentioned starting her career in Washington DC before returning to California where she obtained her JD from UC Berkeley. She has since worked as a prosecutor in Sacramento County. Within this time frame, Orozco stepped up to serve as a West Sacramento city council member where she enjoys giving back to her community. 

During her conversation with us, she mentioned how her life took a turn while serving as Councilwoman. She recalled going to the doctor for a routine check-up which resulted in unexpectedly being diagnosed with stage 4 renal cell carcinoma... kidney cancer. With stage 4 kidney cancer, treatment is not as focused on stopping the disease as it is on making the most of the time the person has left. Instead of letting the diagnosis consume her, she decided to "roll up her sleeves" and get to work ensuring that not only she was happy with the rest of her life, but that her family was set up for success once she was gone. 

Orozco's recounting of her views on life post-diagnosis inspired me in ways I had not expected. She told us that, had she not done things that scared her, she never would have received any of her degrees, worked for the White House, or created the life she now lives. 

As first-gen college graduates or law students, we've all done something that scared us -- probably multiple "somethings" that scared us. We took the time to study and take the LSAT. Some of us applied to law schools in states we may previously not have visited, and some of us ultimately moved to one of those law schools. At that time, we had no idea what to expect from this experience. We knew we would be stressed; we knew it would be hard; and we knew that it would open the door to about a million more scary things. Despite the fear, our grit got us through those scary feelings.  

Looking back, I have no idea how I had the confidence in myself to do these wildly scary things knowing they would be unlike anything anyone in my family had done before. But much like Orozco, I would not be on this crazy law school journey had I not done scary things. 

I've taken the advice to heart to do something scary every day because Orozco made me realize that, when I look back on my life, I don't want to think of what could have been and have regrets. This mantra has led to me confess crushes for my classmates (rejected both times), apply to nearly 100 Biglaw summer associate positions (rejected by every one), and being elected Managing Editor of the UC Davis Law Review (yay for successes!). I never would have done any of these things had I not been willing to embrace and try things that scare me.

Even though doing the scary things has led to rejection many times, I am confident that in the future I will be proud of myself for at least trying. After all, you never know where the scary things can take you. I hope that everyone who reads this is also proud of his/her/themself for having done the scary things that led you where you are today. 

I hope that you, too, start to do something every day that scares you.

I'm so lucky, everything works out for me

"Every man and woman should have the opportunity to go as far as their hard work, individual initiative and competence can take them." These are the words the White House recently used to explain Trump's recent efforts to terminate DEI efforts in our country. 

As we have seen in this course, however, sometimes hard work is not enough. Disadvantaged groups face barriers that keep them from getting to where their hard work could take them. These barriers, and the knowledge of such barriers, have led to first-gen students and other students from disadvantaged backgrounds feeling like it was pure luck that enabled them to achieved the impossible. 

I think often about the mantra/manifestation that was going around social media for a while: "I'm so lucky, everything works out for me." Looking back, I can see this led me to fall into the "Lucky Girl Syndrome"  phenomenon (thank you, S, for inspiring my blog post). 

I had gotten to a point during my law school application journey where I would say "I'm so lucky, everything works out for me" to myself at least once a day in hopes that it would make up for where my application fell short. Once the acceptances started rolling in though, I got scared that it was an accident and that I didn't actually deserve what I had gotten. Looking back now, I can see how "Lucky Girl Syndrome" was ingrained into me for as long as I can remember.  I can even see it going back through generations of my family. 

Like others, I did not know what being "first gen" meant when I was applying to college. I didn't even know when I got there. I remember learning about first generation college students during my first day of orientation and it never occurred to me that I was part of this group. Still, I went to school grateful every day that any school would have just so happened to pick my name out of a stack of applications, let me attend the school, give me money to do so, and award me a diploma at the end of it. 

Looking back, I realize that I was taught to feel lucky to be able to take up space, or to be given any opportunity. Implicit in this, though, is that I didn't earn it, or deserve it, and that I am only ever in any place because of luck and because someone else had let me. I think that at least a little part of this is because of how I was raised. 

Similar to Campoverdi's telling of her family's novenas in Chapter 3, my family turns to God to guide them through hardships. I grew up in an extremely religious family. My family shares the same feelings that every time something good happens to them, it is because they got luck or because God made it happen. When my grandma gave up her own schooling to send her siblings to school and make sure they were taken care of, she said that God blessed her siblings with the education. When my mom went into remission from cancer, it was God who saved her. Every time we didn't lose our house, it was God blessing us. When I began traveling around the country to perform violin with my chamber orchestra, it was God giving me talent to spread his word. When I got into college, it was God giving me a way to use my gifts for good.

I think often about how my family tends to attribute our success to luck or to a higher power when it seems that we shouldn't have worked out in the way that it did. But looking back, what it really comes down to is a willingness to work in spite of and against adversity. It's grit. It's hard work and advocating from me and my family. It's never giving up, even when we've been told no. 

Ultimately, I think a consequence of these mantras - that everything works out for me because I'm lucky, or that my family gets through hardships because God makes it happen - is that in every space I am in, I feel imposter syndrome. I am not there because I worked hard to be here, but because I am lucky or because some higher power made it happen. I am in constant fear of failure because I feel like these spaces are not meant for people like me. These spaces certainly are not built for people like me, so what makes me think I can succeed? 

In fact, the current conversations around increasing DEI in school and employment settings only affirm my imposter syndrome. It is hard to ignore the suggestions that I took a more meritorious student's place (although I do understand that these suggestions entirely misunderstand the place and purpose of DEI) simply because the school was obligated to, or it made them look better. Both constructions suggest I did not earn what I got. 

Luck, religion, and spirituality certainly have their place in big milestones or in overcoming hardship. My family's faith undoubtedly gives us the strength and courage to keep going amidst seemingly never-ending adversity. It gives me the motivation to take up more space and challenge the barriers I face. 

That said, I work everyday on re-shaping this mindset, and I give myself and my family our flowers, so that instead of someone or something else being the reason I am here today, I recognize that it was me and my family working hard, pushing barriers, and never taking that we "can't do it" as an answer. 

Defining and appreciating my "village"

Most people have heard the following phrase: "It takes a village to raise a child." This expression is thought to have originated in Africa and attempts to convey the importance of providing a safe and healthy environment for children to grow up and thrive in.

The "villagers" in a child's life can be their parents, siblings, friends, school peers, religious leaders, or other community members. Each of these social connections can add richness into a child's life and provide a positive influence on the child. 

In my humble opinion, it also takes a village to send a child to law school. 

Receiving an acceptance letter to law school is the culmination of completing an undergraduate degree, studying and taking the LSAT, requesting letters of recommendation, writing personal statements, and submitting applications. Each of these steps require substantial time and energy, and can often lead students feeling emotionally drained. 

Michael Sandel notes in his book entitled The Tyranny of Merit that those who achieve success in a competitive meritocracy are "indebted in ways the competition obscures." In other words, our personal success can be attributed to other factors or people outside of our own doing and hard work. 

In an effort to shine light on those who have supported me on my journey to law school, I want to take a moment to highlight people who I would consider myself indebted to.

My Mom and Younger Brother: My Anchors

I could very easily spend an entire blog post dedicated to describing the support my family has given me. Suffice it to say, I owe so much (if not all) of my success to the love from my mother and little brother.

My mom has been a public school teacher for her entire career, has spent time teaching at the graduate level, and holds a Master's in Education. Her background led her to always push me and my brother to take advantage of education at every step in our lives. When I was accepted into an elite liberal arts college, she took on a second job teaching English to Chinese students via Zoom to help pay for my tuition.

Her sacrifice to help send me to college is one I think about every day. Without her support, I would have never been able to attend a top college and receive an amazing education. On top of it all, she has loved me through thick and thin; she is my biggest fan, my best friend, and the best person I know. She demonstrates to me what it means to work hard, never give up, and always be there for the ones you love. All of the traits I like about myself come from her and I always want to do my best so she is proud of me.

My brother has always served as a calming presence in my life. I admire his cool-headed demeanor and the positive perspective he can provide. He never fails to make me laugh and his kind, sensitive heart serves as my reminder to always stop and smell the roses.

It is difficult to find the right words to encompass all of the gratitude and love I have for them. All I can say is "thank-you" and I hope they know they are (and always will be) my biggest source of strength.

Friends: Past and Present

As those with great friends understand, there is nothing better than knowing you have a group of people cheering you on no matter what.

Prior to law school, my friends were nothing but supportive of my journey to becoming a lawyer. Although many of them were unfamiliar with the process or never attended an elite academic institution, that never stopped them from listening to me discuss what it would be like to be an attorney and encouraging me to chase my dreams.

My friends in law school have also been a steadying force. Law school breeds a competitive environment, but I have never once felt ashamed, belittled, or nervous to share any of my struggles. In fact, I always turn to them when I am facing a challenge I am not sure I can overcome because I know they will push me to do my best while also providing me with a safe space to share my feelings. Law school can be exiling at times, but I feel fortunate to have friends who never make me feel alone.

Extended Community: Mentors in the Legal Field

A common piece of advice many 1Ls receive upon entering law school is to find a mentor within the legal field. Mentors can provide students with their own lived experience as an attorney, act as a sounding board for the student, and give their advice on how to navigate challenging or confusing situations while in law school and beyond. But for First and Onlys, seeking a mentor can prove more difficult compared to students who enter law school with pre-established connections. 

I was fortunate enough to meet my mentor during the spring semester of 1L. One of the required courses first year law students must take at UC Davis is "Lawyering Process" and my mentor was the designated supervisor for our section. I connected with her because of her practical approach to her career and her passion for helping her clients.

When I was struggling to find a job last semester, we met at a coffee shop and she shared her story about job searching right out of law school. She reminded me to rely on my scrappiness and to stay resilient, just as she had done years ago. 

Job searching in law school tested my determination, but the support I received from my mentor reminded me that everyone faces setbacks at some point in their career. Her words of advice have continually stuck with me and constantly serve as a reminder that I can make it through tough situations as long as I stay committed. I will forever be thankful for her encouragement.

Gratitude and Appreciation

It is clear to me that my success and achievement is the product of all the love, support, and encouragement I have received from the "villagers" in my life. Without them, I would not be the woman I am today. I have so much gratitude and appreciation for those who have poured into me and I hope that I can make them proud as I continue down my path.

"Out with the old and in with the new"

“Its out with the old and in with the new,
Goodbye clouds of gray, hello skies of blue”

These lyrics might sound similar to you. They are from Sharpay Evans song “Fabulous” in High School Musical 2. Arguably one of the most impactful movie series for a little girl growing up in California in the 2000s.

As a little girl who had just moved to the US with her family in 2004 I had no idea what “American culture” entailed. Being raised by parents who spoke no English, my sisters and I used movies we rented from the local library to understand what we thought our lives “should” look like. 

12 years later I went off to college at a big beach town school, where I thought I would finally experience what Sharpay was talking about in her song. However, this is where I first faced the reality of class and elitism and the "step ahead" it can provide you. Of course growing up I was aware of class distinctions, but I grew up in a predominantly brown community with most of my peers belonging to the lower middle class like me. That was not the case at my undergrad. I was constantly thrown off by what I believed to be “normal” versus what my peers found “normal” in terms of lifestyles.

The difference between my peers who were upper class and I didn’t just stop at the lifestyles. There would be times in the classroom it felt as if my professors and classmates were speaking a secret language that I hadn’t learned yet. Not just my peers but my professors came from elite backgrounds. This secret language between my professors and peers was indicative of the “hidden curriculum” that many first gen students are unaware of.

While I was feeling constant imposter syndrome in an elite environment I wasn’t sure I belonged in, I was reminded of one of the main reasons I wanted to pursue higher education. A better financial life for my family and I. Going to college is the best thing to do if you want to move up the financial ladder. This is what I had been told by teachers since middle school. I believed that I only had to work a little harder, struggle a little more, and I would be able to join my peers in this elite world.

However, as Alejandra Campoverdi discusses in First Gen: A Memoir, climbing the social and financial ladder alone can be isolating. Campoverdi describes someone who is first generation or the only person in their family, community, or social demographic to cross a threshold as a “First and Only.” First and Onlys can end up facing dual rejection as they cross these unfamiliar thresholds. Rejection from our friends and family with a “You’ve changed” quip and rejection from our new environment because we feel like outsiders.

Reading Campoverdi’s experience as a First and Only felt far too much like my own. While I was climbing this economic ladder and going from undergrad to law school, I became aware of the feeling of being First and Only in both my old life and new. As a First and Only I'm not just uncommon in law school where I'm not being passed down this career like many of my peers, but am also uncommon in my community and family as the only person who is crossing this elite higher education threshold. As I move further along in my educational and professional journey, I notice how “far away” I am feeling from my family and old friends. This is a common experience for first gen students as they accumulate degrees.

As I was debating what to write for this blog post, I was listening to “Fabulous” in the car. The lyrics “Out with the old and in with the new” made me think how much I am losing in order to obtain the new. I want to have new experiences, live different lifestyles, and climb the economic ladder, but I don’t want all of that to come at the expense of my old life. I don’t want social and economic mobility to take an emotional toll on me like it can for many First and Onlys. I think as First and Onlys the only way to avoid this toll is to take stock of what’s important to us and take care of our mental health as we navigate foreign environments and make our marks.