Being the eldest daughter comes with its perks and its pressures. It often feels like riding a rollercoaster where the turns are unpredictable, yet you learn early on that preparation is part of survival. Growing up in a first-generation immigrant family, I was not simply raised by my parents; in many ways, I grew alongside them. They were navigating parenthood for the first time, learning what it meant to nurture, guide, and support while adapting to a new world themselves.

Asian American Adoptees on Identity, Memory, and Belonging Adoption is not what people think it is. I feel like people want it to be simple so badly, like they need it to make sense in a clean, comforting way. A child is “saved,” placed into a better life, and grows up grateful. That’s the version that gets told, repeated, and accepted without much questioning. But that version leaves so much out. It ignores the parts that are harder to explain—the parts that don’t fit into s

Looking back now, I can say with certainty that I would not be here today, in the United States, pursuing an education and a dream, if not for my aunt. Her hands were roughened by work that should never have been hers. Her dreams of education were traded for a life of sacrifice. She shed her blood, sweat, and tears so my father could learn, so he could build a different future. He did just that, but unfortunately, not with her. My aunt was born five years before my father.