Sitting on the porch the summer before college, my dad and I spread paperwork across the small metal table as the sun dipped behind the trees. My laptop balanced on my knees, the FAFSA form glowing like it expected me to know what I was doing. “So it’s not a loan,” I said, scrolling through terms I’d only just Googled. “Well, some of it is. But some of it isn’t. It depends.” My dad nodded, trusting me, even though I had no clue. We reread the same questions three times, adjusted numbers, and second-guessed everything. That night, I realized being a first-generation college student meant more than being the first to go. It meant being the translator, the researcher, and the decision-maker. It also meant that sometimes, pretending you understood a system that was never designed to explain itself to you.

Moving in a few months later, that feeling followed me. I grew up in Delaware County, just outside Philadelphia, close enough to feel the city’s noise and pace, but still fast-moving and familiar. Coming to Bloomsburg felt like stepping into a different rhythm. Roads stretched longer, farmland surrounded the campus, and the quiet at night was louder than anything I was used to. Everyone else seemed to know how college worked. They knew how to email professors without overthinking, and they navigated campus like they’d been preparing for it their whole lives. I was still figuring out where to go and who to ask. In subtle, constant ways, I felt like I’d wandered into a place built for people who had always been told they belonged. I wasn’t sure if I did.

Being the oldest daughter made leaving even heavier. At home, I had always helped figure things out, answered questions, and set the example. Going away felt selfish in a way I couldn’t fully explain. I worried about missing dinners, birthdays, and small moments that suddenly felt bigger because I wasn’t there. I worried about my parents navigating things without me, even though they had managed plenty on their own. There was pride in being the first, but also guilt for wanting something different. Distance isn’t just measured in miles. Sometimes it’s measured in the quiet realization that you’re growing in ways the people you love can’t always see.

Choosing journalism added another layer of uncertainty. Finding schools with strong programs felt overwhelming when no one at home knew what questions to ask. Even after I chose a school, doubts followed. “What are you going to do with that?” “Isn’t journalism dying?” “You won’t make any money.” Sometimes it was strangers, sometimes people who loved me but didn’t understand why I’d choose a field that felt uncertain. Balancing classes, work, and the pressure of being first made it tempting to switch to something more “practical.” But staying mattered. Staying meant proving to myself that my voice and the stories I want to tell have value. 

Even though I felt lost at first, Bloomsburg offers resources that make a difference. Programs like TRIO student support services help with everything from understanding financial aid to tutoring and navigating college life. The Academic Success Center is also a place to ask questions without feeling judged, and professors who take the time to explain things make the difference between confusion and confidence. Student organizations, mentorship programs, and workshops on internships or career planning can make the campus feel less overwhelming and more like a place where first-generation students belong.

Now, as a junior, I can see how far I’ve come. I’ve found my rhythm, my community, and my voice both as a student and a budding journalist. Being first-generation isn’t just about obstacles; it’s about resilience, curiosity, and learning to navigate spaces that weren’t designed with you in mind. Sharing my story isn’t just for me, it’s for anyone who’s felt out of place, questioned whether they belong, or is trying to figure it out without a roadmap. If you’re a first-gen student reading this, you’re not alone. And if you’re not, I hope it gives perspective on what it takes, and why it matters, to be the first in a family to chase a college degree.