White Privilege: Should We Find a Better Name?

The concept of white privilege has been a very hot button topic, particularly in recent years. Conversations in class have also prompted me to reflect further on this topic.

Privilege as a Trigger Word

As we have discussed, part of the frustration with the phrase “white privilege” rests in semantics. This frustration is particularly prevalent in underserved and underprivileged white communities. How can someone accuse them of having privilege when they are lacking in so many other ways? 

This can feel like some sort of attack or almost like a form of gaslighting. This idea that a person can see someone struggling and still call them privileged can seem like a minimization of that person’s strife. 

The Complexities of Privilege

Privilege can be complicated. How do you explain to a white person in poverty that they have privilege in a way that someone like LeBron James or Beyonce does not? 

Ultimately the answer rests in the fact that there are different types of privilege that individuals can experience. 

A person of color or Black person can still experience privilege – both within their own communities and compared to the general population as a whole. One of the easiest ways for racial minorities to have privilege is economically. There is no doubt that access to capital and resources gives people access to power and opportunities that others may not have, regardless of ethnicity. 

Within their own communities, racial minorities with lighter skin complexions such as myself have privilege because of colorism. Though I still experience racism, I do not have the same struggles as darker skinned members of the Black community. This is also a form of privilege. 

Furthermore, some individuals experience an intersection between being a racialized minority, economically disadvantaged, and even part of another marginalized group such as being LGBTQ+ or being a woman. However, some people may experience only belonging to one of the groups that I just listed. 

Ultimately, different people experience different privileges and also experience different barriers. Some of these privileges are based on phenotype, while some are not. Privilege has no monolith and it is important to acknowledge any form of privilege that one may have. 

Is it Really Just Semantics?

I am not sure that there is a simple answer to this. While I do agree that language matters and that changing the name could lead some people to being more receptive to this concept, I am not sure that it is that simple. 

There seemingly is a rather large group of people who are not just frustrated with the semantics of the word privilege, but also the underlying message. There is a frustration with the idea with the acknowledgement that being a certain race can give certain groups “perks” or benefits. A frustration with the acknowledgment that even though underprivileged white communities may struggle in many other areas of life, race is the one place that they do not. 

While altering the semantics could be enough to change the minds of individuals who simply get triggered by the word “privilege” and nothing else, I do not believe it would be enough to change the minds of individuals who have an issue with both the word “privilege” and the underlying message. 

If someone has an issue with the underlying message, then semantics is not enough. Someone would have an issue with whatever we decided to change the name of the phenomenon of white privilege to. 

Again, I am not arguing that there would be no benefit to changing the name from white privilege to something less triggering. However, I personally believe that more people have an issue with the underlying message than the name itself. Until we can address how to make people more receptive to the underlying message, the concept will continue to be hotly debated. 

The Solution? 

In all honesty I really do not have a solution. I would be very dishonest in saying that I am a fan of making lessons about racism more “palatable” in order to appease people who are often willfully obtuse about the subject. 

However, I do understand that in order for progress to be made, there do need to be adjustments made as to how we talk about the complexities of racial identity and privilege. Looking at the semantics of the phrase “white privilege,” and establishing one solid definition of the phrase that acknowledges nuances may be a good first step in the process of getting people on board. 

Ultimately, people on both sides of the aisle must listen to each other. Not listen to respond, but rather truly listen to the frustrations and concerns of each other so that they can find ways to move this conversation forward.

Why do you want to be a lawyer?

"Why do you want to be a lawyer?" I used to fumble over my words and spill something out about my debate skills and how I thought I would be well suited to the profession. People nodded when they heard it, impressed. Teachers encouraged it. My parents clung to it. And I didn’t question it.

Growing up in an immigrant household where stability was always out of reach, saying you wanted to be a lawyer wasn’t just a dream—it was an endpoint. It meant financial security, status, and safety. It meant never having to translate again at the doctor’s office and never being afraid of paperwork with government letterheads. It was a way out and a way up.

But for most of my life, I had no idea what being a lawyer actually looked like. I just knew it sounded like the answer to a lot of the problems we were trying to survive.

Working without a map

I spent a couple years working in law firms before law school. I took jobs that had “legal” in the title—legal assistant, legal case coordinator—but I felt wholly unprepared for the job. I had a couple weeks of transcribing dictations and filing documents as training then I was expected to keep up. I hated having to ask my supervisor for help on tasks because it always felt like an admission of, “I have no idea what I’m doing.” 

So, I stopped asking for help. My objective changed from learning about the legal field to making sure I wasn’t a liability. I convinced myself that I was doing a good job because I was working with lawyers and I was keeping up! But I wasn’t learning how or why I wanted to be a lawyer; I was going through the motions of a path I set myself on aimlessly.

When attorneys asked me if I was planning on going to law school, I reflexively said yes. I was already on this path and there was no reason to doubt my capability. Yet, when it came time to apply to law school, I still felt like I was building a future based on a vague guess.

Before my 1L fall semester, I remember my parents wanted to introduce me to a lawyer from church who wanted to offer some advice. I met him at his country club, and he asked me what I had been doing to get prepared for law school. He asked if I had read outlines and primers on Torts or Constitutional Law and what I was doing to get “ahead of the curve.” It felt embarrassing to tell him that I hadn’t even planned on reading anything substantive before I started school.

Much of law school felt like that, like being ambushed with things I should have done or should have known. When I got in, I assumed the uncertainty would stop. But it didn’t. It just changed shape. The first few weeks of law school felt like a brick wall. People talked about OCI and clerkships but I didn't even know where to find the resources to apply.

Imposter syndrome didn’t creep in—it kicked down the door. Every cold call, every networking event, every conversation about career paths reminded me that I didn’t come from a line of lawyers. I didn’t have mentors. I didn’t have the “why” figured out. I just had a hope that this path would mean something.

An imperfect answer

For a long time, law school was less about becoming a lawyer and more about proving I could get here. In my family, education wasn’t just about opportunity, it was about redemption. It was proof that the sacrifices my parents made weren’t in vain. That all the years spent navigating a new country were leading to something. I didn’t feel pressure to be perfect, but I felt pressure to make this count.

Now, I have no problem recognizing that I don't have a perfect answer for why I want to become a lawyer. It's a combination of interest, ignorance, and insecurity; I'm here because I didn't know better. But being a first-gen student means constantly navigating the unknown. I may not have the language or the blueprint, but I have the resilience and the trust of my friends and family and I know I'll be just fine.

My privilege

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First-gen financial literacy

When I get my first job after I pass the bar, I’m going to make more money than my parents ever have. It’s an incredible accomplishment and a testament to their sacrifice. Yet, since my first paycheck at fifteen, I’ve never learned how to set money aside “responsibly.”

My first job

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

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

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

Poor habits

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

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

Today, I know what a credit score is and how stupid I was for thinking I had figured out a loophole. But for a lot of students like me, the idea of a credit score was so intangible; I needed to “build up” my credit score? Why? I’m just an undergraduate student making minimum wage. If I need to buy a car or a home, I’ll worry about it when I’m making more money. 

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

One step at a time

Financial literacy is an ongoing process, especially when you don’t have a safety net to fall back on. After having worked full-time, I’m still learning. I read Dave Ramsey and I asked financially literate people around me. I’ve learned how to create a monthly budget, I try to contribute to my ROTH IRA and retirement savings, and I’ve slowly repaired my credit score. 

Now, I’m confronted with the fact that I’m going to have a salary that eclipses my parents. I’m going to have the luxury of setting money aside but I’m constantly worried that I’m making a mistake. I’ve resolved to take it one step at a time and to not stress over money I don’t have; an odd reversal of the poor habit of spending money I didn’t have.

Ending The Cycle

It is undeniable to me that “First and Onlys” are pillars of the communities that sustain our world. As children, we naturally evolve into problem solvers, driven by necessity and insecurity. We struggle every day to preserve the smiles of our families, rooting us forward with their excitement. We learn to navigate uncharted territories intentionally in order to break generational curses that have plagued our ancestors. We litter the world with our culture and identities so that people know we exist. But most importantly, we are not selfish. We transform barriers into stepping stones for those who follow us, and we do it out of love. We work hard not just to end our personal struggles but to elevate our loved ones. 

In Alejandra Campoverdi's latest chapter, La Trenza, she reiterates the importance of “First and Onlys” taking the time to address repressed emotions that have lingered in our minds since our childhoods. She also calls on other “First and Onlys” to reflect on our successes and genuine feelings of fulfillment. Campoverdi emphasizes that being a “First and Onlys” often compels individuals to suppress their vulnerabilities in order to embody strength. To me, this is understandable. After all, who has time to address their feelings when everything is burning around you, and people need you to be strong? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hearing my brother’s excitement about going to college helped ease the uncertainty I had carried for thirteen years about whether we had truly done what was best for him over the years. I’m proud that he has earned his seat at the table of higher education. 

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

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

My story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. 

Lessons from a little golden wiener dog

A Long-Awaited Yes

Nearly 14 years ago, my parents finally agreed to let us get a dog.

I was only 10 years old when they gave in to our constant begging. We visited several shelters before one little golden puppy, shaped like a tiny hot dog, caught our eye. He was a blur of energy, racing up to us as we stood outside his kennel, wide-eyed and hopeful.

Several families were already interested in adopting him. It was easy to see why. He was the most beautiful, curious, and loving creature we had ever seen.

Yet somehow the stars aligned, and despite the odds, he became ours.

Learning Through the Unfamiliar

At the time, we were one of the first Punjabi families in our area to adopt a dog. Pets were often seen as an extra responsibility or financial burden, something unnecessary when life already came with enough challenges. Adopting him was a choice that felt unfamiliar, something that set us apart from those around us.

When we brought him home, that unfamiliarity became clear. None of us had grown up with dogs. For the first week, we felt unsure, maybe even a little afraid. We questioned whether we were ready, whether we knew what we were doing, whether we had made a mistake.

Over time, though, that little golden puppy taught us not to be afraid. His love was patient and steady. Slowly, he turned uncertainty into trust, fear into comfort, and transformed our house into a home filled with laughter, care, and growth.

The Lessons He Left Behind

This past Saturday, we lost our sweet boy.

The grief is heavy. Yet what remains is everything he gave us—his spirit, his loyalty, and the quiet lessons he taught us over the years. Most importantly, he showed us how to face the unknown without letting fear take over.

That lesson became even more important years later when I entered law school as a first-generation student. 

Walking into law school felt much like bringing him home for the first time. No one in my family had walked this path before. I didn’t have a roadmap or someone who could tell me exactly what to expect. 

Instead, I had to figure it out on my own, balancing the pressure of my own doubts with the weight of my family’s hopes.

First-generation students often live in two worlds. We carry the experiences and sacrifices of our families on our backs while trying to navigate spaces that were never built with us in mind. 

It is isolating at times—constantly feeling like you’re translating, adjusting, catching up. There is a quiet pressure that comes with knowing you are the first, and that your success feels like it carries more weight than just your own future.

I felt that pressure every time I stepped into a classroom filled with people whose parents were doctors, lawyers, professionals who could guide them through the process. I didn’t have that. 

What I did have, though, was the knowledge that unfamiliar things become familiar over time. My dog had shown me that firsthand. He taught me how to be patient with myself, how to lean into the discomfort of not knowing, and how to trust that I could figure things out along the way.

It is a lesson that grounded me when I questioned whether I belonged. When imposter syndrome crept in, when the workload felt endless, when the stakes felt impossibly high—I reminded myself that I had once been afraid of something as simple as bringing home a dog. Over time, I learned to love and care for him without hesitation. 

Law school, in many ways, was no different. The fear never completely disappears, but it no longer controls you.

Paving the Way Forward

His impact extended far beyond our family. 

After we adopted him, other families in our community began to feel more comfortable welcoming dogs into their homes. What once seemed unusual slowly became something others felt they could do too. That shift, small as it may seem, reminded me how much one decision, one act of bravery, can ripple outward.

Being a first-generation law student feels the same. 

It is not just about my own journey. It is about making the path clearer for others who will come after me. It is about showing my younger siblings and my community that we can belong in spaces where we have not traditionally been represented. 

Every time I take a step forward, I hope it becomes easier for the next person to take that step too.

The stars aligned for us once, all those years ago, when that little golden puppy became part of our family. I like to think they are still aligning now, in ways I may not fully see yet, guiding me forward.

He was the first of many.

So am I.

Lessons from a PBS kid

Fact: The Thresher Shark uses its long tail to stun its prey.  

Fact: There have been ongoing debates on the existence of a ninth planet called Planet X.

Fact: These were the actual things I used to tell other kids in the schoolyard at recess before they would walk away and tell me I was weird. 

Recently, we read the NPR article "In 'Columbus,' John Cho Reckons With His Own First-Generation Culture Clash." The article details Cho's upbringing and the struggles he encountered dealing with the culture clash of being the child of immigrant parents. What stood out to me the most was how the article highlighted the limbo immigrant children are in when exposed to different cultures, struggling to find an identity.  

Growing up in an immigrant household, all we had was satellite TV. I grew up with the kids' shows on PBS, such as Cyberchase, Maya and Miguel, and if I stayed up late enough, Nova. That's right, everyone. I was watching science documentaries for fun. 

I remember going to school the next day, excited to tell the other kids what I had learned, only for them to talk about shows like Kim Possible or The Suite Life of Zack and Cody. It was hard to fit in or find friends who shared my unique interests, especially because at the time, we couldn't afford cable. I felt angry that we couldn't afford to be "normal" and felt lonely because no one really knew about the shows I talked about. 

Like Sonia Sotomayor's mom telling her, "you know best, Sonia," my parents expected me to figure out "American life" on my own. As I previously discussed in another blog post, I had undiagnosed ADHD, and so I really didn't know what was best. Often, I did what I thought was best on impulse. As this article in Think Global Health by Hannah Todd and Eliza Martin explains, "the hardships of immigrant parents in one generation . . . influence the struggles and successes of the next generation."

I learned the quickest, easiest way to "make friends" was to act a fool for some laughs. Disrupting class for some cheap laughs meant to me, "if someone laughs at me, it meant they didn't hate me." Like Gob Bluth in Arrested Development, they weren't laughing at me; they were laughing with me. 

Unfortunately, that didn't sit well with my teachers. After many parent conferences, my mom sent me to work with my grandpa mowing lawns. 

I can still smell the gas fumes and hear the squeaking suspension of the 1990 Ford Econoline van as we drove out at 5AM to mow lawns in Baldwin Hills. My mom believed it would teach me some discipline and I guess by her own logic, teach me to appreciate the luxuries I had. If I wasn't at home causing trouble, it was because I was working. 

Every Saturday, I was given a rake and bin while my grandpa began operating the machines. As we drove through LA, I saw the different cities in LA County. Meeting some interesting people through his routes, I learned that not all of us live the same "American life." Seeing apartment units use children's blankets for window curtains versus seeing houses with garages filled with cars put into perspective what life as a child of immigrants meant to me. 

I learned that immigrant parents will work the hardest jobs during the worst times to give their kids a nicer life. Even if it wasn't the best, it was better than they had. One of my favorite songs of all time "La Jaula de Oro" by Los Tigres del Norte, portrays the fact that parents of immigrant children also face a culture clash. The song comes from the perspective of a father who longs for his life in Mexico and feels he's trapped in a cage made of gold in the U.S. The song describes how the singer's son doesn't even speak his language and denies he's Mexican. This song is a must-listen for the children of immigrant parents. 

I felt compelled to write about this struggle because it was mowing lawns with my grandpa that taught me to realize the sacrifices my parents made for me to be here. Of course, this struggle was not without its faults, and I would later develop that feeling of guilt many of us first gens experience when attaining higher education. The notion that we needed to be the best because we had our family struggles on our shoulders was like an invisible weight being placed slowly over time. But at the time, the hands placing those weights on my shoulders did it slowly, and I wouldn't know this until years later. 

Though I would go on a mental health journey to reflect on this toll, I realized the best thing about working with my Grandpa was that he would listen to my endless talking. Sure, he only spoke Spanish, but I did my best to translate what I'd learned on PBS. I learned a great work ethic from him and would follow his outlook on life: "When life gives you problems, just get straight to working through the dirt, and it will come out alright." 

As of writing this, I feel I've found the definition of the "American life" I struggled to define as the child of immigrants:

Empathy and compassion. 

These are valuable lessons I feel all of us need to learn before we become attorneys. No matter where we end up or how much money we make, always remember to treat each other with kindness. Lend an ear to a stranger, learn to listen, and be there in the moment. 

Looking back, I'm glad that I didn't fit right into the "American life" everyone else fit into. I loved every moment of being able to watch PBS shows and documentaries or check out books from my local library for free. 

I wanted to dedicate this blog post to my grandpa, who taught me a strong work ethic, and my TV grandpa, Mister Rogers, who got me through some of the hardest times of my life and never judged me for my mistakes. Both of them taught me to love myself and appreciate where I came from.  And finally, I wanted to also dedicate this post to LeVar Burton and Reading Rainbow who helped me find other worlds I could escape to in books when I couldn't quite fit into this one sometimes. 

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, specifically, an unintentional response to the constant reminder that we, as “first and onlys,” are often outsiders in the spaces we occupy. 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 self-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. 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, but it has been challenging.

Like many of my fellow “first and onlys” 2L classmates, we, as law students, are asked to balance class participation with completing assignments and projects, and attending meetings for the various clubs and organizations we are involved in while 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 our experiences. 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.

Consequently, the aftereffect of being burned 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 among us, 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, but 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 that 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 under 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 as a community. I call on all “first and onlys” who occupied 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.

Sick of Second Chances

In the excerpt from chapter 17 in the memoir “Educated,” we saw the protagonist make a distasteful comment about the Holocaust because she had never learned or known about it. This caused the people around her to have a very negative reaction to her.  

This interaction begs the question: How much grace should we give to people who make ignorant comments as a result of how they were raised or because of a genuine lack of information?

Growth 

The knee jerk reaction of many people is to say that we have to give people grace. It is unfair to punish people for the things that they do not know, especially while they are teenagers or young adults. 

There is this idea that if we are too hard on people, then we do not give them the opportunity to grow and change. This idea that people should not be punished or crucified for a moment of ignorance or stupidity. That we must be willing to give people second chances for their mistakes. 

While I do understand this perspective, I am not sure if I fully agree with it.

For Context 

Because of the schools that I attended, I have been subjected to racist jokes and racial slurs since the age of five. In Kindergarten I had two young white girls try to have me pretend to be their “slave.” I heard the “n” word weekly from non-Black students. Sometimes the slur was even used directly toward me along with other derogatory remarks questioning my Blackness. 

Furthermore, there were countless jokes about my appearance, my skin tone, and my hair. People would often make jokes about my family being “thugs” or  make claims that my dad had to have been a drug dealer. Students would question my intelligence and undermine my accomplishments due to my race. 

These things happened consistently until I was 18 years old. 

My View

By no means am I saying that people should be perpetually punished for every single mistake that they made in their youth. 

I get it. No one is perfect at those ages, and we all have said or done things that we regret. However, I forgave many of these people only for them to continue the same behavior as we got older. 

I have never fully understood why I was expected to always be the bigger person. Why I was the one who had to continuously extend grace while being berated for something that I could not help. 

I also understand that the people making these comments were “just kids.” But so was I. 

Hearing those types of comments regularly during some of my most formative years had implications on my mental health and self perception that have taken years to reverse. I hated myself for many years of my life, as I was convinced that the treatment I received at school was because there was something wrong with me. 

Some of these students have grown and even apologized to me for the things that they said and did. And while I do appreciate those apologies, I feel absolutely no obligation to forgive any of them. 

I encourage their character development and even celebrate it. However, I have no interest in being used as a stepping stone to their growth. It is wonderful that they learned that what they did was wrong, but this acknowledgement of their wrongdoing did not erase the negative impact that it had on me mentally. A singular apology does not and cannot ever make up for years of ignorance and racism. 

I do not harbor resentment nor wish ill on the individuals who have apologized to me. However, I will never be guilt-tripped into believing that I must forgive and forget what they did simply because they decided to become anti-racist after years of treating me terribly simply for being Black.

The ignorance that many people were taught in their childhoods is not their fault, but it is not mine either. So I will not force myself to “give grace” or be the bigger person when people perpetuate discriminatory ideas, nor should I be expected to. 

Conclusion

I do agree that we must give people room to grow and change. However, I do not believe that the burden of extending grace and forgiveness should fall on the individuals or group harmed by the actions of that person. 

Forgiveness should not be an expectation of individuals harmed by bigotry, regardless of if the intent was malicious or not. Some people may forgive them and want to give them a second chance. Others may want absolutely nothing to do with someone after they make a bigoted comment out of ignorance. Both reactions are valid and acceptable. 

We should not police how people choose to react to any form of discrimination. 

When we have these conversations about giving people grace, I do think it is very easy to unintentionally dismiss the frustrations of those who were harmed in the process. 

It is essential that we find a balance in handling these situations and understand the complexities that come with making certain mistakes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then, you show up anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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