For the first three months after I gave birth, everything seemed on track. We had a plan: my mother would come live with us with my little siblings, who were 12 and 5 at the time, and we would support them while she would help us take care of the baby. With things looking up, my husband and I decided we finally wanted to start a family. This helped to make failed experiments and obstacles feel like a normal part of science. We shared experiences about imposter syndrome, and I realized that I was not alone in my doubts. I thought my strategy had finally paid off and now that I could focus on research, I started to make friends at work. I pushed forward, and after a year I passed the exams required to continue with my PhD. But the truth is, a part of me also enjoyed giving my time to research. In hindsight, this only made my depression worse, and I especially missed my little brother and sister from my mom’s second marriage. After a while I started to avoid going home or even spending too much time on the phone with them. Too shy to ask for time off, I’d only visit my family for a few days here and there, my parents only making things worse by asking why I couldn’t stay longer. I started to work overtime to prove that I belonged, and as I made the lab my home, I began to neglect my own. It was my turn to show that I could fight for my dreams and persevere in this environment. After they had fought so hard for my future, I couldn’t imagine telling my parents that I was quitting because I couldn’t handle someone questioning me. As a child of immigrants, you often have the responsibility to honor the sacrifices your family made for you, all while dealing with many of the same challenges. My husband was the only one who could understand that I was torn between wanting to stop my PhD, and knowing that I couldn’t. I had never thought that other scientific communities might not be so welcoming. Being around them motivated me to successfully apply for an NIH-funded program for undergraduates interested in research and to start leading initiatives to improve diversity in science. We were Latinx, female, a product of immigration, and we were doing science. I had never experienced impostor syndrome with such intensity before: as an undergraduate at California State University of San Marcos, I had found a vibrant community of first-generation students who shared my struggles and my passion for making a difference. I was constantly expecting to receive an email telling me that my admission had been a mistake. I felt I had to prove to everyone that I deserved to be there, but the hardest part was believing it myself. I received many comments questioning my place in the program, my future in science given that no one in my family has a PhD, and my legal status in the country. My cohort was the most diverse in the history of my program, yet many faculty members weren’t used to being around people from various backgrounds. I felt like I had walked into an alternative reality, one that I had been utterly unprepared for. For the first time in my life, I was states away from my family and the community that had lifted me up. These memories often kept me company during long days in the lab at the start of my PhD. I saw him fail, being told no, and pick himself back up every time. I remember hearing my dad passionately pitch business ideas on the phone despite his limited English, and the dark circles under his eyes as he worked late nights and early mornings. My parents were high school sweethearts who had met shortly after arriving in the United States from Mexico. I was four at the time, and my sister had just been born. When I think of hard work and dedication, I think about my father and how, as a twenty-year-old undocumented immigrant, he was building a successful company that would end up employing more than 30 people.
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