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.

Growth is scary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

We need to stop catastrophizing when we're cliff jumping

Catastrophizing is imagining the worst possible outcome of an action or event and treating it as a likely outcome even when it is not. 

This phenomenon may be associated with reduced behavioral measures of risk-taking. What is interesting about the relationship between catastrophizing and risk-taking is how these somewhat conflicting experiences play a role in the decision-making of many "first and onlys." In First Gen A Memoir, Campoverdi discusses her decision to take out massive loans to attend Harvard as a form of risk-taking comparable to "Blindfolded Cliff Jumping." First and onlys face difficult choices with extremely high stakes since they are less likely to have family financial support, built-in professional networks through families, or savings (165). 

While most first and onlys understand taking risks is inherent to their identities as being the first or only ones in their family to break into certain spaces, this challenge is often coupled with catastrophization. On the one hand, risk-taking is necessary for our growth, but on the other, we are raised to be attuned to the consequences of our actions and to work hard to avoid failure. We are used to having to prove we are worthy of being in such spaces since we cannot point to our family members as proof of our credibility. As such, this is why so many first and onlys are very susceptible to imposter phenomena.

This is where catastrophizing comes in. When analyzing choices we can make in life, the stakes are so high that before "diving straight off these cliffs," we tend to overanalyze and imagine every possible outcome of our actions. In my experience, when I have been at a crossroads in my life, I catastrophize the different options I have in order to mentally prepare myself for the consequences of my own actions. As Campoverdi states, “Those who smash through glass ceilings are then left to clean up the shards on their own.” In this way, catastrophizing prepares me to clean up the shards after myself because even when we achieve milestones, they come at a cost, like the loneliness we feel in no longer relating to those in places we came from.

Catastrophizing, where we often assume the worst in people and situations, buffers possible disappointment. It can also help protect us by preparing for anything that could go wrong. For example, because I catastrophized the possibility of not getting a single job offer for my 2L summer, I was motivated to apply to every job opening available, regardless of my interests. I had prepared for the worst, so when I did get an offer, nothing made me happier. If I had not gotten an offer, I would have expected it and would have been prepared to act accordingly because I had "planned ahead" for the disappointment.

When I found myself being the only person of color waitressing at a country club, I catastrophized dealing with racism among my coworkers and even customers. If I did not face any racism, I was pleasantly surprised. However, because I did, I was more emotionally prepared for these encounters because I had "planned ahead" for them. Talking to fellow first and onlys, I know I am not alone in these thoughts and experiences. 

Despite the comfort catastrophizing can bring us, assuming and preparing for the worst in every situation distorts our sense of reality and can increase our risk of mental illnesses by contributing to various anxiety disorders. It is very difficult to break this unhealthy way of thinking, though, especially as first and onlys, because it is a coping mechanism. Luckily, many tips and resources are available to help us break these cycles.

Some methods I have found helpful in my journey to stop catastrophizing include various forms of self-care. I enjoy gratitude journaling, as cheesy as it sounds, since it helps ground me in the present moment instead of worrying so much about the future. Learning that the brain cannot respond to anxiety and gratitude simultaneously makes this technique extra helpful in diminishing catastrophization. Thinking about all the things in my life I am grateful for minimizes negative thoughts I have about the future. Additionally, when I allow myself to do the things I enjoy — like exercising, getting out in nature, and spending time with loved ones — my problems feel less significant, and I become more self-compassionate. 

As first and onlys, we often work so hard to prove wrong the limiting beliefs society places on us that we adopt behaviors that are unkind to ourselves. We forget to break negative habits because they may have helped us in the past. This is a reminder to myself and my fellow first and onlys that to truly love ourselves and improve our well-being, we must stop the catastrophizing that so often accompanies cliff jumping.

My little friend to remind us to love ourselves and to stop catastrophizing because everything will work itself out.

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 hardest lesson in advocacy: knowing when to step back

From Lost to Empowered

I did not always understand what it truly meant to be a first-generation college student. Stepping onto my undergraduate campus for the first time felt like entering a world designed for those with guidance from parents, siblings, or mentors who had already navigated this path. Instead, I had to figure things out on my own, constantly wondering if I was missing something important.

Thankfully, that changed a few weeks into my freshman year when I was selected for a retention program designed for first-generation and low-income students. At the time, I did not realize how much I needed it.

I once believed success was just about working harder, but this program showed me that access to resources made all the difference. It provided priority registration, free private tutoring, a quarterly book stipend, and, most importantly, a support system. I was no longer just surviving college; I was thriving.

That experience changed me. I realized how many first-generation students struggle not because they lack ability, but because they are navigating an unfamiliar system without the same safety nets continuing generation students enjoy. It also showed me the power of having a community that understands and supports you.

When I applied to law school, I knew I needed that same sense of belonging. I prioritized schools with strong first-generation support, places where students were not expected to figure everything out alone. At King Hall, I found that in the First Generation Advocates program.

When Advocacy Feels Impossible

I wish I could say that I joined the First Generation Advocates Student Board (FGASB), advocated for first-generation and low-income law students, and everything else fell into place. But that would be far from the truth.

Advocating for others is difficult, especially when you're struggling yourself. The truth is that I have struggled from the moment I walked into law school orientation. Law school was unlike anything I had experienced before. Like always, though, I figured things out with time.

But nothing could have prepared me for what happened this past semester.

FGASB had won an important award for its service, and I was chosen to deliver the acceptance speech on the organization’s behalf. I was in my seat, nervously awaiting my turn to speak, when my phone buzzed. It was my brother.

“The landlords have decided to sell the house. We will need to move out soon.”

My mind went blank. For most, this news would be stressful. For me, it was a trigger.

I started spiraling, remembering the times we lived in transitional homelessness, the fear of losing everything again, and the uncertainty of what would happen next. Just as the thoughts became overwhelming, they called our organization’s name. I took a deep breath, walked up to the podium, and read the speech I had written just hours earlier.

I did not ask many people for help after that. I convinced myself I could handle it on my own. Then, a few weeks later, my dad suffered a major heart attack.

No warning signs. No time to prepare. Just a single phone call that changed everything.

I suddenly had so many doubts. I did not know if I would have to drop out in my final year of law school to support my family or if I would even make it to the end of the semester. I did not know how to advocate for myself, let alone for others.

Stepping Back to Move Forward

For so long, I believed that to be the best advocate for myself and others, I had to always be present, always be strong, and always have answers. One of the hardest lessons I have learned is that advocacy is not about doing everything alone. It is about knowing when to lean on others, when to delegate, and when to trust that the work will continue even if you need to rest.

1. Lean on Your Community

Advocacy is a collective effort. Just as I encourage others to seek support, I have to remind myself that I, too, deserve that same support.

Reaching out to trusted peers, mentors, and colleagues when things get overwhelming is not a sign of weakness. It is a way to sustain yourself so you can continue doing the work. 

First-generation advocacy exists because people have built communities that uplift and support each other. It is okay to be on the receiving end of that support sometimes.

2. Set Boundaries and Recognize Your Limits

When you are constantly advocating for others, it is easy to neglect your own needs. But pushing yourself beyond your limits does not make you a better advocate. It only leads to burnout.

Setting boundaries is not about disengaging. It is about being intentional with your energy. This can look like saying no to certain commitments, taking breaks when needed, or stepping back from leadership roles temporarily if life becomes too overwhelming.

3. Give Yourself Grace

One of the biggest challenges I have faced is learning to be kind to myself. When things in my personal life started falling apart, I felt like I was failing as an advocate because I was not able to give as much as I once did.

But advocacy is not about being perfect. It is about doing the best you can with the capacity you have. There will be seasons when you can give more and seasons when you need to take a step back. Both are okay.

Giving yourself grace means recognizing that you are human. It means recognizing that taking a break is sometimes the most responsible thing you can do, not just for yourself but for the people who rely on you.

Lessons for Law School and Beyond

Being a first-generation student comes with unique challenges. Trying to advocate for others while navigating those challenges makes it even harder. But stepping back when needed does not mean you care any less. It means making sure you can continue the work in a way that is healthy, sustainable, and impactful.

These lessons are not just about surviving law school. They are about building the resilience and awareness necessary to be an effective advocate in any setting, including as a future attorney. The best advocates are not the ones who never struggle. They are the ones who recognize their limits, know when to rest, and understand that advocacy is a long-term commitment that requires sustainability.

As I move forward in my career, I know that the same principles will continue to apply. To serve clients, support communities, and create meaningful change, I have to balance my dedication with self-care. The ability to step back when necessary is not a weakness. It is a skill that ensures I can continue advocating, not just for others, but for myself as well.

"You're the reason I live" and the accompanying guilt

In First Gen: A Memoir, Alejandra Campoverdi mentioned how her mother and grandmother often told her that she was the reason they lived. This is something my own mother has told me many times since I was a child. Much like Campoverdi, I have felt a lot of pressure knowing that my mom's life is in my hands as much as my own is. 

My mom met my father at a country western bar when she was in her 30s. She has always said that she married the first man who asked. They had a terrible marriage that ended four years after my birth. I am the only child of both of my parents. My mom quit her travel agent job when she was pregnant with me and didn't go back to work until I was in high school. She never tried to remarry or date. 

Growing up, it felt like my mom and me against the world. We spent all of our time together, and she always made every effort to make my childhood enjoyable. She was always the parent volunteer for field trips. She DIYed games and decorations for every one of my birthdays, inviting all of my classmates to a party. She even borrowed money from family friends to take me to Disneyland for my tenth birthday. 

As I started getting older, it was clear that this close relationship developed into a case of childhood parentification. As already mentioned in a couple of previous blog posts, a parentified child is one who has taken on the responsibilities of a parent, which is not developmentally appropriate for their age. Parentification can be like having to take care of a sibling or being responsible for the family financially, but it can also be emotional, as discussed by Campoverdi. 

I was a substitute therapist for my mom starting at a young age. She frequently talked about her stress relating to my dad, money, family dynamics, etc. For Campoverdi, her emotional parentification left her hiding her own feelings in order to not stress anyone out. This was the same for me. I have grown up learning to stifle my true feelings or emotions because I did not want to add to pre-existing stress. The emotional sponge I became led to my mother seeing me as less of a daughter and more of a best friend. 

    "You're the reason I live..."

I have heard variations of this phrase many times. 

My mom had a semi-exciting life before I existed. In high school, she was a theater kid who played major roles in renditions of West Side Story and Fiddler on The Roof. After graduating, she moved from rural southern Oregon to Portland with her sister and spent time traveling around the state as the lead singer of a band. Even in her 30s, she and her friends often frequented the same country western bar where she met my father. 

Upon having me, she sacrificed any possibility of returning to the life she had before. She moved back to southern Oregon to be closer to her parents and grandma. She gave up what could have been a prosperous career. She spent all of her time doing whatever she could to raise me. Any job that she was able to get after my birth never paid enough to keep us afloat. Everything that she did from that point forward was for me. 

When I went to undergrad, I stayed in state. This allowed me to visit home and still do whatever I could for the family. The Covid-19 pandemic was a blessing for my mom because I no longer had the means nor a reason to stay away from home. 

Soon after the pandemic, my mom and I were kicked out of the home my great-grandma provided us since my parents divorced. I became responsible for working and paying rent in the new apartment we had found. This was not a happy time for her, but at least she had me, or so she would tell me. We were roommates and spent almost every free minute together. 

I was not happy in this environment. I had only ever lived in Oregon. I was working as an administrative assistant. I did not have the means to go anywhere or do much of anything. I knew I wanted to leave. 

I wanted to be the one who broke the generational cycle that has persisted with the women in my family: staying in Oregon, marrying the first man who asked, and working secretarial jobs. I knew I needed to go to law school and to do it out of state. This seemed necessary to have a happy life. 

Going to law school out of state meant that my mom could not afford to live in the apartment by herself. She ended up moving in with her parents, who cause her overwhelming stress. In law school, I am the happiest I have ever been. Unfortunately, my happiness has come at the cost of my mom's wellbeing. She is the unhappiest she has ever been. Not because she's told me explicitly, but because I still serve as her substitute therapist. 

I talk to her multiple times a day, and each time I sit and listen to her speak of mistreatment and misery. She spends every waking hour at the beck and call of my grandparents. She never makes time for herself. She has told me that the only thing keeping her sane is the thought of moving to California with me someday. 

So yes, I have done what so many other first-gen students have done to seek more for myself and my family, yet I feel overwhelming guilt knowing that my happiness has been sought at the expense of my mom who has sacrificed so much for me. I've taken away my mom's free-time, her chance at a life she can be proud of, and her best friend. 

So, am I really the reason my mom lives, or am I the reason that she gave up living in the first place? 

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. 

Figuring it out: the first-generation law student's journey

The Return Offer

Like every law student, I started my 2L summer job hoping and praying for a return offer. But, as they say, be careful what you wish for.

For the first three weeks of my summer job, I came home and cried in bed. I was exhausted from working nine-hour shifts, sitting alone in a cubicle, and having my complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD) triggered from being back home. Despite knowing deep down I didn’t want to return home after graduation, I worked hard and smiled through the pain to earn my return offer.

As a first-generation and low-income law student, a return offer represents so much more than just a job after graduation. It is the reassurance of a steady income to help support my family and myself. It is proof that I am capable, that I belong, and that I am building a future I have worked so hard to create. 

So, I worked overtime, paid for my own lunches even when partners invited me to join them, and kept my complaints to myself. I socialized, I bonded, and I gave it my all. When my summer job ended, I left feeling a mix of satisfaction and uncertainty, knowing I wouldn’t find out the status of my return offer for weeks, maybe even months.

The Advisor

While I waited, I knew I needed advice. I carefully chose an advisor from Career Services whose bio showed experience in the type of work I wanted to pursue. I thought I had chosen the best one for me, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

When I explained my summer experience and how I couldn’t go back for personal and professional reasons, their solution was: “You could always go back but not live at home.”

I was speechless. I had just explained how, as the eldest daughter in an Asian family, I’m expected to live at home and support my family. Moving out isn’t just a choice, it’s a balancing act. I thought finding a job elsewhere would help me move forward without hurting my family.

Despite their lack of empathy and cultural understanding, the advisor said one useful thing: “Come back once you’ve heard about your return offer, and we’ll use it to find something better.” I trusted them.

Weeks later, I got my return offer. I felt relief, disappointment, and fear. On one hand, I had security. On the other hand, I knew I couldn’t go back home without a fight.

I returned to Career Services, hopeful I could finally leverage my return offer like they’d suggested. Instead, I was met with a blank stare. They didn’t remember our conversation, their advice, or the hope I’d placed in them.

When I asked what I could do, they shrugged. “It’s too late,” they said. “Most jobs during 3L come from networking and connections.” Those were things that I, as a first-generation student, didn’t have much of.

Still clinging to hope, I asked how to break into estate planning. That’s when they delivered the final blow. They said it’s a tough practice area to enter because most attorneys are sole practitioners or work in small firms that rarely hire new attorneys. Instead of helping me strategize, they looked at me like I was crazy and asking for too much.

But isn’t that their job? To help students like me?

I left their office disappointed and scared. I had wasted valuable time waiting to reach out to firms because I followed their advice. The practice area I wanted to pursue felt like an exclusive club I wasn’t invited to. And worst of all, it felt like my path forward was closing in on me…I might have no choice but to return home.  

Like those first three weeks of my summer job, I came home and cried.

The Harsh Reality

Law school is not designed with first generation students in mind. In fact, the Law School Survey of Student Engagement (LSSSE) reports that only 29% of law students identify as first-generation, with students of color being disproportionately represented among first-generation law students compared to our white peers. Yet, the legal education system rarely acknowledges our unique challenges or provides the support we need to thrive.

This isn’t just about law school, it is about the systemic barriers that make certain professions feel like exclusive jobs. Jobs like lawyer and doctor are among professions most likely to be “passed down” through family connections, leaving first-generation students at an inherent disadvantage. 

So, how do we navigate a world that isn’t built for us? We figure it out, just like we always do.

As first-generation students, we are no strangers to resilience. We’ve taught ourselves how to navigate unfamiliar systems, overcome obstacles, and find solutions. It’s in our DNA to adapt, learn, and push forward.

We figure it out because we have no other choice. We figure it out because we are driven not just by our own dreams but by the hopes of our families and communities. We figure it out because we believe in our ability to pave the way for ourselves and for those who come after us. 

I am still figuring it out but I did reach out to a first-generation alum from our law school. I had met her by chance at an event, and she had always been willing to help. She gave me the encouragement I needed to negotiate for a higher salary and navigate this experience with my best interests at heart. She reminded me that even when the system lets us down, there are people in our corner who understand what it’s like to fight against the odds.

This experience reinforced what I’ve always known: first-generation students find ways to lift ourselves and each other up. We may not have inherited networks or built-in connections, but we create them. We build the bridges we need, and when we cross them, we reach back to help others do the same.

It’s not just about surviving; it is about creating a path forward together.

The Message

I hope this experience will also serve as a reminder to law schools that their first-generation students are being neglected. 

Before you parade around the number of first-generation students in your incoming class, take a moment to ask: are you truly supporting them? Are you providing the resources they need to thrive in an environment that wasn’t built with them in mind?

First-generation alumni should not have to step in to do the job of Career Services. Their willingness to help is a testament to their resilience and empathy, but it also reflects a gap in institutional support. Law schools must do better. They must acknowledge the systemic barriers their first-generation students face, from navigating cultural expectations to lacking inherited networks, and create actionable strategies to help them succeed.

Because when institutions fall short, first-generation students are left to figure it out on their own, just like we always have. And while we’ll keep rising to the challenge, we deserve better. We deserve a system that not only celebrates us but actively invests in our success.

Defeating imposter syndrome with female empowerment

No matter what your identity is, every person has at some point felt the overwhelming sense that they don't belong. Whether that be at a social event, the classroom, a professional setting, or even in their own home, imposter syndrome affects us all. 

But what is imposter syndrome? Imposter syndrome is the psychological experience of feeling like a phony, like you do not deserve to be where you are because you are not qualified. Despite this, those that struggle with imposter syndrome...

do not look ill at ease or uncomfortable. They appear very self confident but really it's just a mask they wear. And they are absolutely sincere in being unable to accept praise. It has nothing to do with false modesty. They are perfectionists who need to perform flawlessly and equate making a mistake with shame and humiliation. They often feel very guilty about the credit they receive for their achievements. 

This quote is from In Her Own Words (October 1985). 

Specifically in graduate students, imposter syndrome has shown to be extremely debilitating. 

In 2020, the Division of Cancer Epidemiology & Genetics conducted a systematic review of 62 studies which evaluated the prevalence of imposter syndrome. Showing prevalence rates as high as 56% to 82% in graduate students, college students, nurses, medical students, and other professions. Symptoms can include distress, anxiety, depression, burnout, exhaustion, avoidance of high-level tasks, rigid thinking, and dismissal of positive feedback.

National Cancer Institute, Division of Cancer Epidemiology & Genetics (2023).

I know for myself imposter syndrome is something I struggle with daily. It is one of the main reasons I am so eager to graduate law school––to get out of this setting that triggers feelings of inadequacy.

Constant exposure to environments where I am made to feel like I am not good enough has become exhausting for me. The mental gymnastics I go through to prove to myself that I am good enough is a routine that I am hoping comes to an end when I finally have a law degree. 

However pervasive imposter syndrome may be in the law school setting, I am even more concerned about it in the work force. This past semester I have been fortunate enough to have the opportunity to extern at a public defender's office in the felony intake department. Unfortunately, I have found this experience to be one that has had a detrimental effect on my self-confidence. The reason? Working exclusively with male attorneys.

 

After this semester, I feel as though I have a gaping hole in my self-worth that I will have to fill before I begin my post bar position. What troubles me more is that other female interns (who are also women of color) have had the same experience in this office, which is a stark contrast to the male interns that seem to be content with their intern experience. 

Everyday after work I would have to remind myself that I have spent well over half of my law school career in public defender offices. I know the ins and outs of how a PD office works and I know I have the capability to learn how to do my job right and go above and beyond if given the opportunity.

The main takeaway from this intern experience for me has been that as an attorney, I will make it my mission to pay it forward and empower female interns around me. Without the mentorship of female attorneys, I would not be zealously pursuing public defense work like I am today. Female mentors have taught me how to write, research, and speak in court. I owe them everything. 

I suppose it was unlucky that I got to know what NOT to do as an attorney working with interns, on such a personal level.

My opinion is not an unpopular one. Mentorship has been shown to be a valuable development resource for women. Dr. Candace Steele Flippin, a scholar and researcher who focuses on women in the workforce, conducted a study in 2017 titled Gen X Women and Career Advancement. This study found that women who lack mentorship experiences have careers associated with unfavorable outcomes such as restricted careers and diminished job performance. 

Comparatively women who did have mentorship experiences reported to have skills in career planning, leadership, and self efficacy. Fifty-three percent of females in the study reported that their most helpful mentor was female.

As evidenced by the study, women need women to look up to and support each other. In a male dominated career field, I know for a fact that without the female attorneys that guided me, I would not have faith in my own ability to be a successful public defender. I am able to have some sense of self assurance because of those who came before me––those who have shown me that I can do it, too. 

Mental boom

"Where did we go wrong?" 

The haunting question no child wants to hear from their parents. Guilt and shame washes over as I think, what is wrong with me? I grew up in a similar environment as any other Asian American, and yet everyone else seems to have turned out fine. I'm envious of people who don't have that little voice in their head constantly speaking, creating scenarios, bringing up anxiety.

Will I abandon my family, or will they abandon me first?

The method which Korean American parents tend to raise their children is called ga-jung-kyo-yuk. The emphasis is on family, "ga-jung" meaning family and "kyo-yuk" meaning education. Respect your elders was one of the rules, and breaking any rule meant corporal punishment, typically getting hit on the calves or raising my arms above my head for a prolonged time. Sometimes they even threatened to kick me out of the house, although I believe they actually would not. My parents never forgot to remind me that they had it worse when they grew up, and that I should be thankful for receiving less severe punishments. 

My parents, along with many other Korean parents, expressed their warmth indirectly. Their sacrifices should have been enough to show how much they love me. I often got into arguments with my father because I would act coldly to him. It was always the same response, "wait till you get your own son and you'll understand exactly how I feel", "how do you not understand the love I'm showing you." To this day it's hard for me to understand.

Whenever I talk with my parents, they always bring up how nice it would be for me to go back to Texas after graduating. Work while living with my parents so I won't have to worry about the financial costs of living alone and away from them. Pointing out how my sister lives near them, and because of that they're able to take care of her baby. I simply laugh and respond with "sure, sure," not letting them know how suffocated I feel by the idea.

Maybe I should see mental health services or a therapist while I'm away from home. Discussing mental health concerns is considered taboo in many Asian cultures and as a result Asian Americans tend to dismiss, deny or neglect their symptoms. Countless times I thought, I don't have the right to feel this way; so many people have had it worse than me; I'm simply overreacting and need to get over it; don't burden my parents any more than I already have. Seeking professional help results in parents asking, "where did we go wrong?" 

Regardless of who is to blame, seeking mental health help should not be frowned upon. Instead, it should be encouraged, for the person's bravery in acknowledging something may be wrong, and for actively stepping forward to do something about it. If my sister's child ever has the need to seek help, I'll remind her to instead ask, "how can we help?"

Yes, you do belong

An article by Linda Sugin, a professor at Fordham Law School, describes a mental health crisis affecting law students. She explains how a recent survey revealed that 75% of law students reported increased anxiety because of law school and more than 50% reported feeling depressed. The numbers were worse for women, nonbinary, and students of color.

As a woman of color and a first-generation law student, I felt anxiety creeping more and more into my everyday life during my first year of law school. It is hard to pinpoint one source of it all, but one common question I remember asking myself throughout my first year of law school was, “Do I even belong here?”

I did not realize it then, but this was just the beginning of my journey with imposter syndrome.

The phrase “imposter phenomenon” (commonly known as imposter syndrome) was coined by psychologists Dr. Pauline Clance and Dr. Suzanne Imes in 1978 when they published their article, “The Imposter Phenomenon in High Achieving Women: Dynamics and Therapeutic Intervention.” The article explains how the two psychologists spent five years talking to high-achieving women from various fields, including nursing and law. In the end, the article detailed how high-achieving women were more likely to experience self-doubt and fear that someone would discover they were “intellectual imposters.”

I did not know what imposter syndrome was – had experienced no hint of it – until I was a law student and began experiencing overwhelming feelings of doubt.

I was the first person in my family to graduate from an American high school and the first person to graduate from college. I remember feeling truly accomplished when I showed off my bachelor’s degree to my parents and grandparents at my college graduation party. There was no doubt in my mind that I belonged in college, given the fact that I received academic awards and graduated in three years.

After college, when I showed up at law school, I also had no sense of not belonging there. However, after my first week of law school, feelings of uncertainty washed over me. All of the other students were much older than me and more established. Some had different careers and even held PhDs, while others had built-in connections with law firms.

As one of the youngest law students and one with no connection to the legal profession, I felt I somehow slipped through the system since there was no way my achievements could mirror even a fraction of my peers’ successes. As I tried to blend in, I felt somehow my peers could “see through me,” and they could tell that I did not belong.

About a month after law school, I remember blurting out to my parents over dinner, “I don’t think I belong at law school.” My parents looked so confused as I tried to explain other students’ successes and how I compared to them.

As my parents hugged me tightly, they reminded me how I accomplished so much and that law schools did not make mistakes in their admissions process. “You belong there,” my mom said. Even though it did not feel like it, I tried to find some comfort in those words.

Imposter syndrome does not go away overnight. The feelings may simmer, but they are still there. When an individual faces a new situation, the destructive cycle of self-doubt may likely resurface.

Haley Kick, an associate attorney at Brennan, Manna, and Diamond, writes about the imposter syndrome and the first-generation experience in her article, “The Imposter in the Room: A First-Generation Lawyer’s Tips To Remember You Are Enough.” Kick explains how the frenzy of self-doubt started when she began college as a first-generation college student. Now, as a third-year attorney, she shared how she still experienced self-doubt, such as questioning whether she deserved to lead an arbitration hearing.

As I enter into my second year of law school, I still have a hard time adjusting to my self-doubt in law school. However, I have learned a few techniques to cope with my imposter syndrome.

First, I have learned to channel my imposter syndrome. Usually, if you are experiencing imposter syndrome, it means you care. So, I channel my feelings of uncertainty to learn and grow from my environment. This pushes me to focus on what I can control and let go of what I cannot.

Second, I make efforts to celebrate any positive outcomes. In her article, Kick shares that she keeps a “win folder” that documents positive outcomes. It serves as a reminder of how much she has achieved.

Although imposter syndrome will not disappear overnight, it is important to find ways to cope and grow from it. So, the next time I look in the mirror and question whether I belong. I simply say, “Yes, I do belong.”

The Worst Morning Routine

 

    One of my most vivid memories of 1L year happened on the very first day of the introduction week. I woke up at 7am and started getting ready for the day when a debilitating wave of nausea hit me. The intensity made me resort to laying on the bathroom floor and I spent the majority of that morning trying to keep from throwing up. That was my first bout of anxiety that was followed by over a year of severe anxiety symptoms that affected every corner of my life.

    In that year I had come to feel terrified of going to sleep because I knew that in the morning my routine would not go without gut wrenching nausea that made me fall to my bathroom floor. It was a daily ritual for me. At this time, not only was I dealing with internal physical manifestations of anxiety but it also affected my day to day interactions with people. I was awkward, I didn't know how much of myself I could share with other people. It was like a consistent dark cloud hovering above me. 

    What contributed to this was also the nature of law school classrooms. I remember sitting there in contracts class getting my very first cold call and having my ind go completely blank. The only thing I could focus on was the pounding of my heart in my ears. I embarrassingly stuttered out "I'm sorry I have anxiety" to my professor who so graciously moved on from me. I wish I could say the anxiety was only bad in class and I was able to find some solace among the student body, but I didn't. Consistent talk of whose outline looks like what, who was doing which hypo, and who stayed the longest at the library, made me feel constantly unworthy. My anxiety exhausted me. I had no energy after hours of doctrinal classes. I couldn't do a reading let alone spend hours scrutinizing legal text. I wasn't like my peers. I wasn't committed because I was just trying to make it though the day, and it showed. My 1L fall grades devastated me. I came into law school after an undergraduate career of recognized academic success and here I was drowning in a sea of overachievers like myself, only smarter.

    That spring my anxiety took a turn for the worse. I had essentially isolated myself from all friends I had made at law school and I was emotionally burdening those around me/ It caused a huge strain on my relationships with my roommates and family. That summer I sought out a psychiatrist and started Zoloft. I know anxiety medication is not for everyone but I swear it made me myself again. To this day I struggle with bouts of anxiety but thankfully medication was able to help me. What I want to point out is that the environment in law school gave me the type of anxiety that made it hard to wake up everyday, and I am not alone in that. The big question is, what do we do about it?

    This past year, Bloomberg law found that over 75 percent of law students reported increased anxiety and 50 percent reported increased depression. When looking at the demographics of respondents, it was clear the marginalized students were more prone to mental health struggles. When broken down by gender, 26 percent of female and 38 percent of non binary reported their well being worsened compared to 22 percent of men. In terms of race, 33 percent of Black students reported worsened well being compared to 24 percent of white students. Among the symptoms of worsened well being were disrupted sleep, increased alcohol usage, thoughts of self harm, and issues in personal relationships. 

    Specifically in the context of first generation college students, there is a higher risk for anxiety symptoms. When parents of first generation students were asked if their child worries about school, parents with fewer years of schooling reported their child worried more about school. This could mean that parents are modeling anxiety about school. 

    I know a large part of the solution to issues like anxiety are classes like this one. Environments where marginalized students can freely talk about their obstacles in elite academic institutions. I wish I had all the answers but even I am still trying to find my footing despite almost being through with law school.

How my parents gave me an anxiety disorder.

Ever since I can remember, my parents praised me for being smart. Among their three children, my older brother was the athletic one, I was the brainy one, and my younger sister was a little bit of both. Because of that, my parents made an unspoken agreement to pressure me to do well in school. They also reserved praise for when I succeeded.

Don’t get me wrong: my parents put plenty of academic pressure on all three of us. My brother got a lot of serious talks and exaggerated lectures about the dangers of neglecting his studies. But I was always going to be the breadwinner of the family, the highest educated, the one to financially take care of my parents when they retire.

My parents often reminded me that I have a better life than they or their parents did. They made sure I knew that I come from generations of poor and uneducated family and that I had to be the one to break the cycle. If I didn’t, all those generations of suffering would be for nothing.

I was fine with the pressure and the selective allotment of love because I was good at school. I was placed in the highest math level every year. I played four musical instruments. I finished high school with a 4.67 GPA. And it was all worth it because every time I came home with an A, my mom would give me a big hug and tell me she was proud of me.

Starting in my second year at UCLA, things got a little less fine. I was at an elite school where the competition was intense. Even worse, my Economics major was curved to a B-, so to get the A’s my parents wanted, I couldn’t simply perform above average—I had to excel. I begged my parents to let me switch to an easier major, but their answer was always the same, “you must major in something practical.”

I feel the pressure immensely. If I failed at having a better life, then all my parents’ hard work and suffering was in vain. How could they forgive me?

It was at that time that I started to get panic attacks. I’m talking about the kind of panic attacks where time slows, the room dissolves, and it feels like you're going to die because you can’t get a single breath in. The kind that lasts for 20 minutes and takes hours to recover from.

At the time, I didn’t realize why I had suddenly started getting these panic attacks. There were no rational thoughts going on in my head when they were happening—it felt purely physical. I was powerless and weaponless whenever they came.

It wasn’t until I started learning more about mental health from friends that I realized I was in a pressure cooker. Years and years of ignoring the amount of pressure I felt allowed it to grow to an insurmountable level. I was so tightly wound by the fear of failing academically that I literally thought I would die if it happened.

The anxiety became unbearable. I couldn’t get myself to pick up my textbook to study because I was so afraid that I wouldn’t understand the writing on the page. My grades tanked. Ironically, that was the push to get me to finally admit that I needed help. 

I’ll never forget my parents’ reaction when I told them I wanted to start therapy. The guilt was immediate: “You think we’re bad parents?” My dad encouraged me to try to tough it out: “Your generation is so soft these days.”

I was diagnosed with a rather serious anxiety disorder. I don’t blame my parents for the way they pressured me to succeed academically. They just wanted the best for me. There’s also something to be said about how maybe it worked: my brother became a software engineer, I’m on track to become a lawyer, and my sister is applying to medical school.

Something that helps me a lot is knowing I’m not some kind of inferior anomaly who still needed help despite having a “better life” than my family before me. Studies show that Asian/Pacific Islander and Latino children of immigrants have significantly higher rates of mental illness than children of non-immigrant parents. Asian Americans are also the least likely to seek help for their mental illness. For me, this struggle is amplified because I am also first generation.

Seeing these statistics, I am proud of how I handled my mental illness. I mean, I still struggle with anxiety every day, but I think a lot of people who went through what I did might have dropped out (not that I would blame them). I'm just hoping that I can hold it together through law school, with at least a little bit of my sanity left.