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.

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.

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.

"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. 

To live, or not to live with our parents, that is the question

Living at home with your parents as an adult has traditionally been seen as a failure in American society. People who did so were often deemed lazy, incapable of being independent, and moochers. Living on your own signifies independence, freedom, and success.

On the other hand, growing up in an immigrant household I was taught the exact opposite. Family is the most important thing in life, and this means living with family or—at the very least—nearby them to provide care. Additionally, living at home is preferred because it saves money. Why pay rent to a random stranger when you can pay rent to your own parents, either with money or by helping them out? In theory, this is a “win-win”.

An ongoing dilemma I have, however, is one I am sure many other young adults have: Are the monetary savings of living with my parents worth the non-monetary costs? Fortunately, I am lucky to have grown up in a loving household, and my parents would welcome me back to live with them. So I should want to live with them right? Yet, there is a part of me that does not want to go back. It is not that I do not miss being around my parents, but more so I do not particularly enjoy the heightened familial obligations, stunted personal growth, and lack of independence that comes with being under the same roof.

When I am home, I am expected to help the family. This means taking on running errands for my mom or folding laundry for my entire family. Honestly, this is not too bad, but pairing this with not being able to stay out late with friends or constantly updating my parents on what I am doing or where I am going whenever I leave the house is hard. It is especially hard to return to this lifestyle when I have had a taste of freedom while living on my own in college and law school. 

Additionally, returning home also means returning to my past self. The old me was the family therapist who resolved conflicts amongst family members and who had to seek parental approval before doing anything. I would be returning to the room filled with my childhood stuffed animals. This is the room with a bed where my feet hang off the mattress if I move a couple inches deeper under the covers. This is the room missing a door since my brother and I broke it when playing at least 15 years ago. My room at home represents the old version of me who felt lost and unsure of herself. Going back after all the growth and independence I have gained while away feels like a regression and losing the progress I have made. 

The flip side to maintaining my independence and freedom is the exorbitant costs of living on my own.  According to data from the U.S. Census Bureau, one in three U.S. adults between 18 years old and 34 years old live in their parents' home. The Harris Poll for Bloomberg reported that more than 60% of Gen-Zers and millennials moved back home in the past two years due to financial challenges. 

Even if I do not move back in with my parents, my familial and work obligations will require me to live in the Bay Area. This means I will pay rent in the Bay Area, one of the most expensive places to live. What's worse is not only would living on my own be unaffordable but there are additional hidden costs of feeling guilty and selfish for not staying with my family when I am so close by.

Throughout college and now in law school, I looked for work to be close to my parents. Previously, there was no doubt that I would live at home to save money because there was a tangible end date for when I would move out and live on my own again. More recently though, thinking about my post-graduation plans that feel more long-term, I am seeing the situation differently. I am lucky to be able to talk to friends my age with varying living situations to help me determine what I may want to do myself. 

I wish I could say I have figured out my plans, but unfortunately, that remains to be clear. I am glad that I  understand the cost of independence and that freedom is more than money before I make any decisions though. In the meantime, I will embrace this period of my life where I have the opportunity to explore my options and be grateful that I am lucky that my family is there to support me by providing a place for me to stay in the first place.

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.

First-gen financial literacy

When I get my first job after I pass the bar, I’m going to make more money than my parents ever have. It’s an incredible accomplishment and a testament to their sacrifice that I am able to make this financial leap. Yet, since my first paycheck when I was fifteen, I’ve never learned how to set money aside "responsibly."

My first job

My first job was at El Pollo Loco which was a ten-minute walk from my home. I got the job because I did what my parents told me to do: walk in and ask if they were hiring. I had already done this at several other fast-food chains within walking distance and been summarily rejected. I remember joking with my friends that I couldn’t even get hired at McDonalds. At El Pollo Loco, though, I was rewarded for my “persistence and grit.” 

My parents encouraged me to get a job but they insisted that I wouldn’t be helping with bills or giving any portion of my paycheck to them. I know I could have helped but they didn’t want me to work for the sake of money. To them, a job meant learning responsibility and sacrifice. It meant that I wouldn’t be able to hang out with my friends whenever I wanted because I was scheduled for a shift. It meant that a movie and a dinner literally cost “two hours of my time.” 

I learned the value of time management and responsibility soon enough, but I didn’t know what to do with the money coming in. My parents were focused on keeping us in school and keeping food on the table. I asked my older sister for advice, and she told me to “just spend it on what you want.” So that’s what I did.

Poor habits

My dad helped me apply for my first Discover credit card when I started college. I could use the card to front the costs for textbooks, class registration, and anything else I might need. He instructed me to pay off the statement balance in full every month, but he didn’t explain why. At that point, I didn’t know what a credit score was, and I was already in the habit of spending money on whatever I wanted. 

Eventually, I just tried submitting a minimum payment on my credit card bill and waited to see if anything would happen. The bank accepted the payment and sent me a bill the next month with another minimum payment due. I was so excited that I thought I had hacked the system. I didn’t tell my dad because I would technically be disobeying him, but he never asked about my bills so I never took the initiative and talked to him about it. If the bank didn’t have a problem with it, why would he? I wasn’t living in poverty but after reading excerpts from Hillbilly Elegy, I realize I was always planning what to buy with my next paycheck. 

For a lot of students like me, the idea of a credit score was so intangible. I had no idea I needed to “build up” my credit score? Why? I was just an undergraduate student making minimum wage. If I needed to buy a car or a home, I’d worry about that when I was making more money. 

I think this is a big struggle for a lot of first-gen students like me; we never experienced the benefits of accrued wealth. We are more likely to graduate with debt and much more likely to drop out of college. It’s difficult to convince myself to set aside money that’ll be a boon to me 40 years later when right now, my student loan debts are going to compound on itself every single month. The ever-present problems that have stood before us our entire lives, such as paying for groceries or rent, have built poor habits that make us want to spend in the present. Furthermore, the costs of social mobility, such as student loans and buying our first car, make it even harder to break these poor habits.

One step at a time

Today, I know what a credit score is and how stupid I was for thinking I had figured out a loophole when I was really accumulating interest and undermining my credit score. I read Dave Ramsey, and I asked financially literate people around me for advice. Every weekend, I go through my bank statements and input charges into QuickBooks to keep track of my spending. I set monthly budgets for myself on food, personal spending, and hobbies. 

I told my parents about the stupid minimum payments I had been making and they wanted to help me. They helped me co-sign on a new car they bought so my credit score could slowly get back up. With my monthly budget, now, I'm always paying off my credit card statement in full. When I was working full-time, I started saving money in my Roth IRA and mutual funds account with an eye to the future.

Financial literacy is an ongoing process, especially when you don’t have a safety net to fall back on. Having worked full-time at a few jobs now, I’m still learning. Now that I’m going to have a salary that eclipses my parents, I’m going to have the luxury of setting aside money, but I’m constantly worried that I’m making a mistake. I’ve resolved to take it one step at a time and to not stress over money I don’t have. It's an odd reversal of my prior bad habit of spending money I didn’t have.

Ending the cycle

It is undeniable to me that “First and Onlys” are pillars sustaining the broader existence of our communities. As children, we naturally evolve into problem solvers, driven by necessity and insecurity. We struggle every day to preserve the smiles of our families, as they cheer us on with their excitement. We learn to navigate uncharted territories intentionally in order to break generational curses that have plagued our ancestors. We litter the world with our culture and identities so that people know we exist. 

But most importantly, we are not selfish. We transform barriers into stepping stones for those who follow us, and we do it out of love. We work hard not just to end our personal struggles but to elevate our loved ones. 

In the final chapter of Alejandra Campoverdi’s First Gen: A Memoir, the chapter titled, La Trenza, she reiterates the importance of First and Onlys taking the time to address repressed emotions that have lingered in our psyches since our childhoods. She also calls on other First and Onlys to reflect on our successes and genuine feelings of fulfillment. Campoverdi emphasizes that being a First and Onlys often compels individuals to suppress their vulnerabilities in order to embody strength. I understand this. After all, who has time to address their feelings—or even to feel their feelings—when everything is burning around you and your loved ones need you to be strong? 

That said, as our readings and speakers have consistently highlighted throughout this semester, repression of our feelings can inadvertently undermine our ability to experience genuine fulfillment from our successes. I believe that when indirect repression arises, it sometimes takes others to remind us of our efforts. I have spent the past few days reflecting deeply on my own journey. This self-awareness campaign has allowed me to recognize that the efforts I have invested in for years have yielded outcomes surpassing anything my younger self could have ever imagined—I just had not taken the time to notice them.

Since the age of fourteen, I have had an active role in the upbringing of my younger brother, Angello. Although I was a child myself, it was my job to shield him and his childhood from the aftereffects of our parents’ divorce. Our leftover family worked every day to make sure he was ensconced in endless love and security. As he grew up, we wanted him to be well-equipped to enter the professional world. My family worked hard every day to make sure he had the right tools to chase his dreams. Turns out, we did something right!

A few days ago, Angello told me that he had decided to accept UC Davis’s offer to join the incoming Class of 2029. To me, this was an amazing milestone not only for him but for our whole family. Although I’m the first in our family to go to college, I did so by attending community college for two years and then transferring to earn my bachelor’s degree. 

Don’t get me wrong—I wanted to go straight to a four-year institution, but I chose the community college route for two reasons. First, there was the obvious issue of affordability. Like many First and Onlys, the reality of being from a lower social-economic background can make dreams like going to college feel impossible. Second, I felt that my family was too unstable for me to leave home; I provided emotional and financial support to my mother and brothers, and the guilt of leaving them behind to pursue my own dreams was heartbreaking. So, I stayed close to home, and I have no regrets!

In that same conversation, Angello told me that the university had provided him scholarships that will cover the entire cost of attendance. I slowly realized that this financial aid meant he would not need to be burdened by loans or to work tirelessly to cover his college expenses, as I had done. Unlike me, he will not have to juggle a demanding full-time job just to afford college. Any job he does take will be by choice, not necessity. Likewise, his kind-hearted soul can go to college knowing our family is emotionally fortified to handle his absence from home. 

In the last few years, our family has worked on improving ourselves by addressing trauma, and I think it has only made us stronger as a collective unit. For First and Onlys like me, the real successes that bring me genuine fulfillment are the “successes” that advance the life prospects of my loved ones. Viewing myself as a member of the collective unit that is my family is a reminder of how far we’ve come.

Hearing my brother’s excitement about going to college helped ease the uncertainty I had carried for thirteen years. I’m proud that he has earned his seat at the table of higher education. 

For many First and Onlys, our families––for good or bad––are powerful forces. Several of my fellow blogging colleagues have written heartfelt essays describing the complexity of their relationship with their families. For example, my colleague AKJ, in their post “Defining and appreciating my ‘village,’” defined family members as their “anchors.” In contrast, my colleagues Jenna and M highlight the emotional complexity of their parentified role in their family. All of these experiences with our families are valid. Being the emotional anchor of a family while trying to build a future for yourself is exhausting—but it’s also a powerful testament to love.

In witnessing my brother take his next big step in life, I have come to understand that the sacrifices we make as “First and Onlys” are investments in a future we help create. Our efforts echo loudly beyond ourselves. We clear paths alone and trailblaze spaces, hoping someone we love will eventually join us.

My story

My mother has been unhoused for over two years. She blames me for it. 

I haven't spoken these words out loud to anyone at King Hall despite it weighing on me and greatly impacting my own educational experience. I think it's time I tell my story. 

One of the main legal issues I would work on during my AmeriCorps fellowship was helping tenants with their Unlawful Detainer cases. There were very clear rules that I had to follow, with the first and most important being to never render legal advice. They were not my clients, I was not an attorney. My role was clear: I would help pro se litigants fill out the paperwork to keep them in their homes, educate them about their legal rights and the eviction process, and then I would send them on their way. 

For years my mother had been barely scraping by, only narrowly avoiding evictions in the past. The only reason why she still had an apartment was because of the eviction moratoriums put into place during the COVID-19 pandemic. 

My mother and I have always had a tumultuous relationship. My parents had their first child when they were teens. By the time they had me, my dad's youngest, they were only 23. Between being young parents, battling cancer, financial instability, and unhealed childhood traumas, our family has always felt dysfunctional.

I felt like my mother had mentally checked out of our family years before she physically left me and my siblings with my dad. But I had always done everything I could to fix what I could. I raised my newborn sister while juggling high school and college applications so my mom could work. Once I got a job, I sent her money to pay for daycare or her rent. As always, when the last eviction notice wound up on her door, I set her up with all the legal resources that I could. This time it wasn't enough. 

Resources were steadily decreasing as we got further away from the pandemic, and there were no more protections that could keep my mom in her home. Despite doing what I could to prepare her for court, and help her during her mediation and hearings, she had to vacate her apartment by January 17, 2023. Worst of all, she blamed me for it. 

From the point on, nothing that happened to me mattered to my mom and my older sister. I couldn't be frustrated when my personal statement was deleted because at least I wasn't unhoused. I couldn't be happy when I got into school because it was still my fault for losing my biggest legal battle yet. Slowly, I stopped telling people anything about myself both at school and at home. I was ashamed that I get to live this life while my mother is unhoused and my dad doesn't think he'll make enough to pay the bills each month because he's taking care of my grandparents. 

There's a lot of hurt between the two of us that can't be captured in a short blog post, but looking back what hurts most is knowing that so much responsibility was put onto a child from both of my parents. Campoverdi's First Gen and some of our other readings have discussed that first-gen students' experiences such as mine cause these students to grow up too fast. I find myself now more than ever grieving my childhood, and the fact that I've felt like an adult for so long. 

I often hear stories about the relationships that people have with their families in our class, and I feel like there is something wrong with me for not having the same relationship. My partner's family knows more about me than my own family because I've stopped telling my own family anything about me. When my partner's family asks about me, or I hear about the relationships everyone seems to have with their families, I physically hurt because I realize that I'm now a stranger to my own family. But how do you repair years of strained relationships? 

Since getting to law school, I've kept not just my family but all of my peers at arms length. Much of this hesitance to share these experiences goes back to my shame. I don't talk to people at school, but I also don't talk to my family back at home. So who's left? 

I sat down today to write a letter to my past self, but I quickly realized that I don't feel ready for that yet. Law school has challenged me in every way imaginable. But most recently, the challenged I've faced is figuring out who is in my village. 

A self-help guide for eldest daughters

After reading the Refinery29 article entitled "6 Women On The Pressure Of Being The Eldest Kid Of Immigrants," I couldn't help but see the parallels to my own experience. The women discussed serving as the guinea pig for their parents, taking over familial responsibilities that are typically reserved for adults, and becoming the designated third parent.

As the eldest daughter in my family, I've had similar experiences: I consistently provide significant emotional support to each of my family members when they navigate intrafamily turmoil, serve as a role model for my brother in every aspect, and ensure that peace is kept within my home.

The best way I can describe myself is that I am the designated Family Manager. 

Those who experience "eldest daughter syndrome" typically feel a strong sense of responsibility; they are considered type A, overachievers, or perfectionists; they struggle with people-pleasing behaviors; and they have a hard time setting boundaries. This list isn't all-encompassing, but these are some of the most common traits that eldest daughters share. 

After reading through this blog, it appears I am not the only one who navigates the dynamics that come with being the oldest child in their family. As such, I decided to compile a "self-help" guide for those of us suffering from eldest daughter syndrome. Implementing the recommendations below is easier said than done, but it is a first step in prioritizing our well-being.

Develop Boundaries

One of the most important ways to combat eldest daughter syndrome is to create boundaries with your family members. This can be especially difficult when our families consistently rely on us, but establishing your limits and learning to delegate responsibility is one of the most important ways to avoid emotional burnout. 

Learning to set boundaries involves recognizing that saying "no" is not only acceptable but necessary for maintaining our well-being. This can start with small steps, such as limiting our availability to others, avoiding phone calls after a certain time, or declining requests that drain our energy. 

Differentiating between independence and excessive self-reliance is also key. Becoming independent can be seen as a strength and is commonly associated with being the eldest daughter. However, when that independence morphs into an unhealthy inability to depend on others, it can become a serious impediment to our health. If you find yourself slipping into the habit of refusing to ask for help, it is best to pause and remember to reach out when a situation become overwhelming.

Find a Community and Share your Experience

Finding a community of like-minded individuals is a powerful tool for eldest daughters navigating the challenges of our role. Connecting with others who have experienced similar pressures and responsibilities can provide us with a sense of validation.

For example, after reading a satirical article detailing the LinkedIn profile of an eldest daughter, I forwarded the piece to one of my childhood friends who--like me--is also the oldest daughter in her family. We shared jokes about which portions of the fictitious profile page was most applicable to us and we found it amusing, relevant, and almost too accurate. Reminiscing over our shared experience as eldest daughters reminded me that my experiences are not singular and that other people share the same struggles that I do. 

Practice Self-Love and Self-Appreciation

Practicing self-love is essential for eldest daughters seeking to overcome the pressures of our role. Growing up as a caretaker often means putting others first, which can lead to neglecting one's own emotional and physical needs. Self-love involves prioritizing personal care and recognizing that take care of ourselves is not selfish but necessary. This can include activities like spending time alone, engaging in hobbies, or simply taking moments to reflect on our own needs. 

In an effort to practice more self-appreciation, I created a list of traits I developed which can be attributed to being the oldest child in my family. For example, I love that I prioritize family time and I am extremely proud of my ability to be a problem-solver while also being empathetic; I attribute each of these qualities to my experience as an eldest daughter.

By implementing these strategies, eldest daughters can begin to break free from the pressures of our role, prioritize well-being, and cultivate a healthier balance between family responsibilities and personal fulfillment. As eldest daughters, we have to remember that we cannot pour from an empty cup. 

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.

"And thank goodness he isn't Mexican"

"You'll own nothing. And you'll be happy," is a prediction of the near future made by the World Economic Forum in 2018. This is a phrase that has come to mind more frequently as the world becomes increasingly dominated by subscription services, disposable plastics, and rentals. 

Desperate not to be lifetime renters, my fiancé and I recently purchased a condominium in the Greater Sacramento Area and have since been investing all our free time to the renovation and move-in process. Last weekend, this process involved the construction of a bookshelf and its installation into our living room accent wall (see photos below). To make our home improvement dream a reality, we enlisted the aid of my contractor "friend" (who I'll refer to herein under the pseudonym "Mateo" due to his documentation status).

Mateo is a paradox and an enigma, a middle-aged Mexican man with a hardboiled past and an impish sense of humor. Mateo was born in or around the city of Jalisco, Mexico, but with the way he describes it, you'd think he was born into the wild western frontier of the 1890s. In his early years, Mateo courted death numerous times working on neighborhood ranches. He's been kicked by a horse, hung on chicken wire, and has received more than his fair share of cuts and lacerations. I'm convinced his coarse hands are made up of scar tissue more than anything else. Regardless of the threats to his health, Mateo has always been happy to work and earn his living.

Mateo's time in Mexico was eventually cut short when he was forced to leave his pueblo around the age of 17. Alone, and with little money or supplies, Mateo crossed the Mexican-American frontier and survived by taking on odd jobs until he was finally taken in by a contracting company willing to exploit him for him full-time. A few years later, a now 19-year-old Mateo met his now wife while obtaining his GED. They became parents at a young age, an unseen inheritance. One fatherly punch to the jaw, a wedding, and a few years later, Mateo would find himself a respected member of his new family and a successful entrepreneur.

Mateo is an industrious man who values family, hard-work, and durability above all else. He has a very odd form of intelligence that allows him to organize labor, sell his skillset, solve problems and carry out complex renovations while believing with all sincerity and among other things that the world could be flat and that the act of flossing produces cavities. However, there is one odd trait about him I've yet to understand. While he carries great pride in his ancestry, being "hecho en Mexico," he also seems to carry an odd animus against Mexicans.

Recently, his daughter had an intimate courthouse wedding prompted by her now husband's obligation to the military (below, please enjoy a photo of the historic San Francisco courthouse for reference). Later that day, they held a beautiful reception restricted to 50 of their closest loved ones. One by one, her family and friends offered their blessings and shared memories about the bride and groom. When Mateo's turn came, he shared some of the joys and regrets he had accumulated along his life which ultimately played a small part in their union. Notably, he stated that while he was overjoyed by his daughter and her husband, he regretted bringing down his wife's potential in life. He concluded along these lines:

'I am so grateful that [my daughter] did things the right way. They are getting married today not out of responsibility but out of love. And to a great guy. Not like me. And thank goodness he isn't Mexican."

As he delivered that last line, his eyes (along with many others) fell in the direction of his niece's table, at which she sat beside her boyfriend, a relatively tall Mexican man with tanned skin and a wiry frame. After an awkward pause, the microphone and the attention eventually moved on.

Coming back to last weekend, as we drove back to my condo from El Pollo Loco to continue renovating, the topic of immigration and the Trump Administration came up in conversation. Being undocumented himself and a gracious employer to those in positions of need, I assumed he would feel a significant degree of empathy for those targeted by President Trump's authoritarian immigration policies (see, e.g., compulsory immigrant registry, removing sensitive area restrictions on ICE arrests, and contemplating the adoption of a pay-to-win back door for the wealthy into America). Instead, he told me that deportation is simply another consequence of choice.

"If you break the law, you go to jail. If you come in illegally, you get kicked out. You get what you deserve. Why I feel bad because you get what you deserve?"

I was shocked and disappointed, but I had no retort. How can one argue against such a simple, if not heartless, proposition? Even being at risk himself and knowing the collateral harms at stake with each removal, he was able to take the humanity out of the law. 

Mateo's confusing combination of Mexican pride and animosity is unfortunately not an isolated phenomenon. Hispanics and Latinx peoples across the country are shifting towards MAGA ideologies, as evidenced by our most recent national election; and for the life of me, I can't understand why. Mateo's case is especially troubling because, unlike those who voted for Trump this last November and wish to "close the door behind them" as they pursue their American dreams, Mateo "came in through the window."

If this self-destructive trend continues, those like Mateo may just receive the consequences they were willing to have others suffer. If that should come to pass, although he owns nothing, I doubt he'd be happy.