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.

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.

My working-class roots

Admitted Student's Weekend at Scripps College for the class of 2020 took place in late April of 2016. To say I was excited to participate would have been an understatement.

I saw my chance to attend Scripps as a ticket to a whole new world. Born to working class parents, I knew the opportunity to pursue higher education at an elite academic institution would open doors for me I never thought possible. As an educator herself, my mom also preached the importance of higher education. She taught me and my brother to shoot for the stars, always try our best, and take advantage of every opportunity that presented itself. 

With all of that in mind, I was itching to attend Admitted Students Weekend. I could not wait to meet my future friends and professors, as well as get a chance to explore the campus. 

After listening to the school's president give her opening remarks and touring the campus, our first break in the day came during lunch time. Numerous white tables and lawn chairs were set up all over the main lawn so students and their families could each lunch while getting to know each other. After going through the buffet line and loading up my plate, I selected a seat at a table with 3 other girls and their accompanying parents. 

I sat down and introduced myself to everyone at the table. After some brief small talk, the conversation quickly turned to where each of the girls vacationed for spring break. I was shocked to hear some of the destinations: Mexico, London, and Thailand. When the girls turned to me, I told them I went to San Diego to visit some of my extended family, but my parents promised me I could go somewhere international next spring. 

What I told them was a complete lie. 

I was not prepared to share that I had only been out of the country once, and it was only because I vigorously fundraised so I can attend the trip with a cohort from my high school. My background as a working class kid felt so small and menial compared these girls who (come to find out) were had parents that were doctors and investment bankers. 

While I thoroughly enjoyed my time at Scripps and received an amazing education, I never quite found people I connected deeply with. Sure, I had a group of friends and enjoyed socializing as much as any other college student. However, I came to learn my concerns were somewhat different than those of my friends. 

While my friends were always on the hunt for the next best place to party in downtown Los Angeles, I was hunting for extra hours at my work-study job. When they were worried about paying for a new outfit for an upcoming formal event, I was worried about saving money for gas.

Now five years removed from college, I wish I would have been more honest with my peers about my working class background.

In the article entitled "Coming Out as Working Class," Justin Quarry argues that those who have risen from poverty to assume positions of power and influence should "make ourselves be heard and known." This, Quarry stipulates, will show students it is possible to achieve upward mobility and that they are not alone. 

I could not agree with Quarry more. 

Authentic representation helps dismantle the stigma associated with the working-class identity. Too often, media and educational institutions perpetuate biases that portray the working class negatively or as "other," creating barriers to inclusion and opportunity. By openly sharing our stories, those of us from working class backgrounds can counter these narratives and offer students a relatable example of resilience and achievement. This visibility normalizes diversity in positions of power and expands the concept of who belongs in spaces traditionally dominated by middle- and upper-class individuals. 

In the years since, I have been doing my best to change my habits. When Scripps students reach out and ask to meet for a coffee chat, I always make sure to weave in my background; I want to make sure they know anyone can do it and their struggles are not solely their own to bear. By sharing my story, I hope it encourages other to share their own experiences. 

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. 

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.

Conquering Spaces

As I enter the second half of the spring semester, I have come to the conclusion that the unofficial stereotype for most “First and Onlys” is that we love to overcommit ourselves, no matter how unhealthy it might be for us. Moreover, we fear that our work products will be scrutinized under a microscope for total perfection, and therefore, in utter exhaustion, we try our best to make everything perfect. It’s an endless game of progression and regression. In her memoir, First Gen: A Memoir, author Alejandra Campoverdi provides an insightful analogy for this First and Onlys phenomenon in Chapter Five, Crash into Me. Campoverdi compares this experience to the children’s board game Chutes and Ladders, capturing the unpredictable rises and setbacks encountered by those navigating uncharted paths.

Although I am not a social scientist, it seems possible that our obsession with overcommitting could be based on the complexity of our backgrounds. That is, overcommitting may be an unwitting response to the constant reminder that we, as First and Onlys, are often outsiders in the spaces where we find ourselves. We are so used to being naturally excluded from certain social circles that when we have earned an opportunity to enter a new space, whether that is our first office job or attending college, we feel the need to integrate ourselves by proving to others that without any doubt we are worth the space we conquer. 

These feelings are very powerful. They can shape our perception of our overall worth. The most empowering tools I have utilized to combat these feelings are working on my individual acceptance and seeking a broader community of people who can relate to me.

Individual acceptance requires First and Onlys to reflect deeply on their personal sense of belonging and worth. As someone about to enter their last year of law school, I expected this time to be an opportunity to reflect on my achievements–but it has proven otherwise. Admittedly, these last few weeks have been an overwhelming period filled with constant stress and depression. I have been trying my best to balance my personal life with my obligations in law school, and it has been challenging.

Like many of my fellow First and Only 2L classmates, we, as law students, are asked to balance class participation with completing assignments and projects, while also attending meetings for the various clubs and organizations we are involved in. We do all of those things while also trying our best to maintain the little bit of social life we have left. Despite our meticulous time management, the volume of responsibilities leaves us feeling stretched too thin. Dealing with personal relationships and family losses only complicates the experience. And as the semester goes on, we start to burn out from the constant stress and pressure, like a candle reaching its limit, trying its best to keep its flame burning.

One aftereffect of burn out makes an individual question whether or not they deserve to be in a particular space. In moments of vulnerability, it makes me wonder if I’m in the right place, asking myself, “Am I actually deserving, or am I just really good at lying to myself?”

However, the recognition of other First and Onlys pushes me forward. Ironically, as I have learned this semester, First and Onlys can find solidarity in knowing that these feelings of self-doubt are collectively shared, no matter what stage of our professional development we are in. Whether you’re an incoming first-year student preparing for college, an admitted student excited to start law school, or even a seasoned law student just trying to make it through the semester, we doubt ourselves. At the same time, we long for integration and the acknowledgment of others that we are deserving of our place at the table. For me, the community of Latinx attorneys, judges, professors, and students who I have met these last few years has supported my process of self-awareness, allowing me to be more comfortable with my own resilience, even in spaces that were not traditionally designed with First and Onlys in mind.

Last Friday, I attended the Cruz Reynoso Bar Association’s Annual meeting as one of only three law students. The association aims to create a community among licensed attorneys and students committed to the values of the late Justice Cruz Reynoso, California’s Supreme Court’s first Chicano Justice. I saw firsthand the pride in the eyes of total strangers when I described the background that made my achievements possible. These individuals, some of whom had shared similar life experiences, collectively acknowledged me as worthy of my title of a law student. 

Having local lawyers, judges, and King Hall professors offer to be a resource if I ever needed it, truly recentered me, canceling my insecurities. Their willingness to mentor and share their insights, or even just listen, was reassuring. It reminded me that I belong in this profession by affirming my capabilities. Knowing that experienced members of the legal community were invested in my success has motivated me to approach challenges with renewed confidence and determination.

Through sharing my experience, I assert the necessity of growing and strengthening our First and Onlys community. Expanding representation for underrepresented groups of First and Onlys, can only actively reinforce our collective strength. I call on all First and Onlys who occupy spaces in the professional and the academic world not to forget that as new generations enter our spaces, we are responsible for welcoming them with open arms and teaching them to do the same.

The restrictions of language

My partner’s middle name is “JM”—but there is far more meaning in those two letters than anticipated.

“JM” stands for “jung-ming.” A Chinese name. My partner’s family uses generational names, meaning the names of children born in the same generation share a Chinese character. In my partner’s case, he and his brother share “jung.”

My partner was born close to the new millennium, on December 29, 1999. His parents wanted to signify the coming of the 2000s, and so, the meaning of his middle name was intended to be “bell ringing in the new millennium.” Due to influences that can only be guessed at, the true meaning of his middle name is—“dinner bell.” Meanwhile, his brother’s middle name means “unicorn.”

One theory for the middle name mix-up is that my partner’s mom, a second generation Chinese American, lost command of Mandarin as she became more assimilated. If this were true it would echo nay’s experience voiced in the blog post “Do you even know how smart I am in another language.”

Behind the letters “JM” that appear on my partner’s passport, there is a story, a misconception, and a connection to Chinese culture and his brother. There is a similar story behind the passed down initials of ACM.

I believe these stories demonstrate some of the gaps in experience language cannot cover. Labels alone are not reliable conduits in conveying an entire story.

I feel this tension in my own life, because my life experiences do not cleanly fit within many typically labeled traits. I grew up low income, but I am comfortable now. I fall within the LGBTQ community, but I realized quite late and have been dating a man for years. I am a first-generation law student, but I do not claim “first-generation” because my parents made it through my hometown CSU. In my mom’s case, after three tries—and in my dad’s, after breaking away from intermittent homelessness and parents with drug addiction.

I believe this feeling of tension deriving from the simplicity of labels and the complexity of lived experience is common.

One instance of this tension can be seen in an anecdote from the New Yorker article by Leslie Jamison. The article speaks mostly about whether the term “imposter syndrome” is flawed and whether it draws attention away from pressing societal issues regarding equity in academic and work spaces. However, it includes a story about Stephanie Land, the author of the “Maid:” a memoir recounting Land’s experiences as a maid, a job undertaken to support her unexpected pregnancy. The anecdote described a moment in which a stranger thanked Land for her writing. At the time of the conversation, Land was flying first class with her teenage daughter to see a Lizzo concert. Land described that she felt “she’d been caught somewhere she didn’t belong—as if flying first class made her current self a fraud, or else her past self a fraud…” because of the tension between the struggles she faced and voiced in Maid and the circumstances of the conversation.

My partner and other multiracial friends have similarly voiced that on any given day they may feel that they do not belong to any part of their identity.

What is to be done about the inadequacy of language in capturing someone’s essence within one or two words?

Personally, I try not to identify myself using the labels you might find on an employment form. Instead, I speak to who I am by being open about my experiences and the events and people who have shaped me.

AKJ wrote about the village it takes to raise and send a child to law school. I believe every person seeks and wants community, but sometimes it may not be clear where you will find the people critical to your “village.” Due to insecurity related to claiming parts of my identity that may lend itself more to built-in community, I never know where I may find kinship or support. So, I open myself to the world and leave it in the hands of individuals to decide whether the cloth from which we are cut bears any resemblance.

I know for others labels can be empowering, and I almost envy those who confidently wield them. From these individuals, though, I would ask for open-mindedness. It may surprise you who you end up having a lot in common with.

Looking through the glass window: the first-generation experience

I am a first-generation law student. Technically, I wasn’t a first-generation college student as my mom attended college and nursing school online when I was a kid, and my dad earned his degree just a few years ago. But in many ways, I still shared the first-generation experience.

Both of my parents pursued their education later in life after I was born. My mom juggled nursing school while raising three kids, often on her own while my dad was deployed with the U.S. Army. My dad, too, worked tirelessly to build a career, and just last year, he was promoted to Sergeant Major while simultaneously earning his master’s degree. Watching them push forward, despite the odds, left a lasting impact on me.

My parents were teen parents. College and careers weren’t something they had been raised to think about and they were the least of their parents’ worries. But they were smart students, great athletes, and heavily involved in extracurriculars. They practically raised themselves before raising three kids and eventually, a fourth, born 11 years later in 2016.

They broke generational cycles: poverty, alcoholism, and the expectation of staying in the same place. But breaking cycles isn’t just about moving forward; it often comes with hard choices. Both of my parents are Native American from different tribes, and they met at a powwow. Being Native comes with deep ties to the land, community, and traditions. 

But as my parents built a better life for themselves, they moved farther from their reservations and the people they grew up with. Their success wasn’t always celebrated with some family members seeing their new lifestyle as my parents thinking they were “better” now that they had financial stability. They were often asked for money, as if they owed it. But when they were teenagers, pregnant and struggling, no one was there to guide them. No one told them what was best for their future. They had to figure it out on their own.

In First Gen: A Memoir, Alejandra Campoverdi talks about those referred to as “First and Only” defined as the first or only person in their community to cross a significant threshold. But with that comes what she calls the Trailblazer Toll. One part of that toll is breakaway guilt that develops with the feeling of having to prove your family’s sacrifices were worth it while grappling with the reality of having more financial security than your loved ones.

This post by AKJ discusses breakaway guilt and the trailblazer toll in more detail. 

I felt that tension growing up watching as my parents created a future they never had, while also seeing the weight they carried because of it. Now, as a first-generation law student, I carry that same drive. My parents always believed in my future, and college was always part of the plan. 

But they couldn’t provide much guidance on the hidden curriculum—the unwritten rules of higher education. They didn’t know about applications, campus life, or preparing for in-person classes. I like many first gen students learned those things from TV shows, movies, online research, and the occasional tip from a friend’s parent who had been to college. My mom only considered college because her wealthier friends were encouraged to apply. Without that push, she may have never pursued nursing.

This post by SC goes into depth on the struggles often faced by first gens new to a college environment. 

I had that encouragement, but in many ways, I felt like I was looking through a glass window—seeing the possibilities but unsure how to reach them. The first-generation experience doesn’t disappear in one generation. Even as one generation makes it better for the next, the effects linger.

Campoverdi notes that “there are thousands of people in each of our family lineages, and their emotional experiences leave a mark on us.”

 As a Native American, I often reflect on my ancestors and the trauma they endured. My great-grandmother and great-aunties survived residential boarding schools. That history isn’t distant, it echoes through my family. Progress beyond the reservation is difficult to imagine for many in my tribe because, for so long, the outside world was the enemy. That generational trauma still shapes us.

Campoverdi describes how being a “First and Only” means being forced to survive, and if you are good at surviving, the gap between where you came from and where you are now can feel even larger. But she also describes first-gens as the bridge—stretched from where we come from to where we hope to arrive. In many ways, my parents built that bridge for me.

I like to think one day someone else looking through the glass window won’t feel lost because I’ll be there to give them the answers I once searched for. And I like to think I will continue to create a path on the bridge.

Bringing your whole self to work when you are not standard issue?

When I was kindergarten age, I got a teacher fired.

Based on parental retellings, I pieced together that I was enrolled in a summer course intended to strengthen students’ reading ability. On the first day of class, the teacher laid out piles of books in the middle of each cluster of desks…and that was all.

I noticed several of the kids did not know how to read, but time was left to pass. So, one day I showed myself right to the principal’s office—and I tattled. I told the principal about how the kids who did not know how to read were not being helped and that it was wrong for them not to be assisted. The principal observed the class, and let the teacher go.

I picked up an intuition for right and wrong at a young age. Instances of unfairness bothered me. So, despite being low on society’s hierarchical ladder, I developed a stern voice to wield against inequity. This is similar to Campoverdi’s description of herself as the protector of her family in Chapter 3 of First Gen, except I tried to be protector of all. As “M” states, I, too, believed “if I don’t do it, no one else will.” 

Until recently, I felt pride at having such a voice. But interactions with legal institutions have caused me to question whether this feature—one I believe is central to my identity—can be used freely in the workplace.

At the end of Chapter 3, Campoverdi considers that she may need to take steps to protect herself moving forward. I find myself in a similar position, but do not like how protecting myself might equate to burying a piece of my identity.

Before law school I was a paralegal at a highly ranked law firm where I worked hard. I was on-call around the clock and worked past midnight on numerous occasions. In a review a senior attorney noted, “…R is always a pleasure to work with, even when faced with difficult tasks or tight deadlines. I can also rely on her to flag issues before they arise or that are missed by junior attorneys….”

This acknowledgment that my feedback was sometimes more useful than that of people with advanced degrees bolstered my sense of utility and value, and was reinforced by overwhelmingly positive reviews from other surveyed attorneys.

So, when I was denied a summer associate position at my old firm, I was surprised. Was my advocacy a factor?

At my old firm the paralegal program is two-years, but paralegals are hired every year. I was part of the class of 2021. There were four of us: three women and one man. When I was hired, I asked if the salary was negotiable due to studies showing women are less likely to negotiate their first salaries, leading to income disparity. I was told it was not negotiable, because of a lockstep pay scale. A female colleague in my class, “Gideon,” was told the same.

The following year, a man hired with the 2022 paralegal class was able to negotiate his salary. He was accelerated onto the step of the pay scale my class was earning after our first-year promotion. Adding insult to injury, he started in June (I had started in August), so he was brought into the company making more money than I was—even with my year of in-company experience. The male paralegal who had started with my class left the firm early for a master’s program. This left three ivy-league educated women getting paid the same or less than a new, male paralegal with less relevant experience.

Perhaps there was more nuance to the situation, but the circumstances closely approximated gender discrimination. So, I approached my manager about negotiating a class-wide raise. I maintained a professional tone while advocating for my colleagues and me. Despite a response along the lines of “I wish you guys wouldn’t discuss your salaries,” I convinced management to award my class an additional bonus that year.

This was not the only time I was forthcoming with management about my perspective on fairness.

When our department was hiring the 2023 paralegal class, three internal referrals were handed down to our manager. My manager reviewed their resumes, conducted screener interviews, and then had us conduct secondary interviews. Our, paralegal, interviews were followed by attorney interviews. There was no public job posting for the duration of those events.

The candidates were fine, but not stellar. Despite this, my manager thought the referral candidates should receive offers to keep hiring simple. This did not sit right with me, because it exemplified the privilege of pursuing law in the footsteps of one’s family, or with the advantage of having family friends positioned to provide access to opportunity. “Lawyers have parents who are lawyers at a rate 18 times the rest of the population”—a strong indicator of inherited advantage.

We did end up making a job posting and interviewing additional candidates. But only because Gideon and I maintained that we should widen the pool of opportunity. Gideon and I came from similar backgrounds—and we were hired from the resume pile. We did not have someone to discreetly hand our resume directly to the person making the hiring decisions. There were no lawyers in our family tree nor a legacy of wealth for us to fall back on. Our families had made the crawl to middle class within our lifetimes.

Gideon and I wanted to serve as the bridge allowing access to law for others with first generation and low-income backgrounds.

To the extent I stood up for fairness in my first job, I was entirely myself. I argued against gender pay disparity and in favor of widening applicant pools to include candidates beyond those cultivated by nepotism. But, despite glowing reviews, I was not welcomed back.

Within our class we have read about how law school prepares students for the hierarchy and seemingly arbitrary decision making that occurs in a law practice. Was I rejected because I did not fall into place at the bottom of the hierarchy? Because I could not accept the firm’s decisions when they were not just seemingly arbitrary, but also wrong? Does thriving in a private firm mean being complacent to procedures that effectuate “closing the door” behind me?

I hope to find that the answer to all the above questions is “no.” I want to be the kind of lawyer my younger self would be proud of—and she was never a fan of caving to intimidating forces out of fear.

Further, if the answers are “yes,” breaking into law will continue to be difficult for “First and Onlys.” I know that adopting behaviors such as “passing” and “dodging” are necessary for some to protect their peace. But I have tried to accept all aspects of myself growing up, including my proclivity for clashing with authority where I believe it necessary to stimulate positive change—and I do not want to give that up. 

Should I?

Lifelong protectors learning to rely on others

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is normal?

Two years ago, Pulitzer Prize-winning artist Kendrick Lamar released the album Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers.

Two years ago, the lyrics "I hope you find some peace of mind in this lifetime," echoed into my soul. 

Two years ago, I realized the bass blasting from the stereo was actually my heart pounding through my chest,  recognizing the lyrics hit close to home. 

The album was Lamar's letter to himself, filled with themes of seeking help and addressing his generational trauma. But that Friday morning, it felt like Lamar sat in the passenger seat and spoke to me about my life, telling me to look inside and reflect on who I was. 

Because I was the first in my family to attend college, I always felt the pressure on my shoulders to be the best. In her book First Gen: A Memoir,  Alejandra Campoverdi uses the term "First and Onlys" to describe first-generation students breaking the mold and pursuing higher education. Similarly, I considered myself a trailblazer and believed only my academic success would inspire my younger siblings to seek higher education. 

Every class, every exam, felt like balancing on a tightrope supported by a tower of loose books. Teetering constantly, I would look over and see the fall would be a long one. As the oldest sibling and first-generation American from Mexican parents, I felt myself the product of my family's hardships every time I walked onto the UC Irvine campus. "You're the first in your family to be here, you need to do better," was a belief I constantly considered normal. 

What I didn't realize was my life was filled with Adverse Childhood Experiences. 

The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) explains that Adverse Childhood Experiences, or "ACEs," are traumatic events encountered during childhood. The CDC provides a non-exhaustive list of factors and experiences considered ACEs. More shockingly, ACEs not only affect how kids think or see the world but also impact their physical health. An article from Global Pediatric Health explains that the more ACEs a kid experiences, the more likely they are to experience risks to their physical health as adults.

Many ACEs are attributed to living in low-income neighborhoods ,and as we've learned, first-generation students are most often from these neighborhoods. 

So, after listening to Kendrick Lamar's life and realizing we shared similar traumas, I began to realize what I considered "normal" was far from it. For one, my mom worked two jobs and had to balance dealing with a troublemaker, yours truly. She told me stories of how I was moved to three different preschools because I was always getting into trouble. Well come to find out years later, I had ADHD that went undiagnosed until I was 23. I never confronted her about it. Instead, I hinted at her stories. 

Then, the bombshell:

"Oh yeah, I had taken you to see a doctor, but they were going to give you pills and you would have been different. I didn't want to lose you." I didn't react, I just nodded and told myself it was a selfish move.

Grinding my teeth until I felt a headache, I was angry. She had taken away my chance to live a "normal life," where I could sit still, follow along in class, and not blame myself for being "stupid." Every exam I  struggled with was not from a lack of knowledge about the concepts, but instead stemmed from my inability to sit down and just take a test. The fuse had been lit the moment I  attended preschool, ticking every time I failed a subject or struggled to understand topics in class. What I didn't know was that the fuse would have to burn out.

You see, believing these ideas of having to be "good enough" and "you've come so far, you need to be better" left its mark. Every time I made the tiniest mistake, I would apologize to the fullest. I could never make a mistake because it meant I wasn't perfect and anything less than that meant I'd never become successful. Years of living this way left me with anxiety. My mental well-being was burned out.

Therapy was never an option because it meant, "I was crazy" and I never wanted to believe that something was in fact wrong with me. But, inspired by Kendrick Lamar, I did it anyway because I knew it was time to change. It was there I learned about ACEs, about how my mom had lived through her own traumas, and that I was her first opportunity to live a "normal life". I learned about my family history, and how we dealt with alcoholism, anxiety, and other trauma but no one did anything about it. Not because they didn't want to but, because they didn't know how. We just lived that way and assumed everything was normal.

To quote Campoverdi, "We heal generational trauma when we choose to evolve versus repeat . . . changing the future for our own bloodlines." I don't resent my mom for her decisions, knowing that normal isn't always in the cards for first-gen students or their parents. 

I hope that my post can allow others to look into themselves too and realize that maybe the loose tower we struggle to balance on as first-gen students can be replaced by a sturdier foundation by taking care of your mental health and yourself.