What It’s Like Growing Up With Immigrant Parents While Trying to Survive College in New York City

Growing up with immigrant parents in New York City feels like being handed adult responsibilities before you even understand what childhood is supposed to look like. By the time most kids are worrying about weekend plans, you’re worrying about rent, bills, and how to translate letters written in a language your family doesn’t speak.

At least, that’s how it felt for me.

In this story, I’ll call myself “R.” I’m a first-generation college student trying to finish a computer science degree while living in a one-bedroom apartment with family members who rely on me far more than I ever expected. My desk is wedged between the couch and the kitchen counter, and when I study at night, I can hear every movement in the apartment—the microwave beeping, the sink dripping, and the door creaking open when someone gets home from work.

Every morning starts with numbers in my head. Tuition. MetroCard. Groceries. Internet bills. I don’t leave my apartment thinking about assignments—I leave wondering how I’m going to afford the rest of the semester. I calculate my expenses while standing on a packed subway platform, pretending I’m just another student scrolling through my phone instead of mentally subtracting rent from my next paycheck.

People say college is about “finding yourself,” but when you grow up with immigrant parents, college feels more like trying not to lose everyone else.

In class, professors talk about internships, unpaid research positions, and networking events across the city. They assume we all have time. They assume we all can stay late. They assume we don’t have to rush home to help someone understand a medical bill or figure out why the lights went out again. Sometimes I look around the classroom and wonder how many other students are carrying the same invisible weight.

After classes, I take the subway back through stations packed with people who look just as exhausted as I feel. New York City is beautiful, but it’s also relentless. Every advertisement reminds you that someone else is doing better. Every shiny building feels like proof that you’re falling behind. The city moves so fast that it doesn’t stop to ask if you’re keeping up—it just keeps going.

At home, my parents don’t really understand what computer science is. They just know it’s “hard” and that I spend too many hours staring at a laptop. They ask why I look tired all the time. I don’t know how to explain that being a first-generation college student means carrying invisible weight everywhere you go. You’re not just trying to pass your classes—you’re trying to become the version of yourself your family sacrificed everything for.

In this story, there’s a moment where R fails an exam.

Not because he didn’t study—but because he studied while worrying about eviction notices that never existed in real life but felt real enough to take over his brain. The fear was so loud that the equations on the paper blurred together. That’s the truth hidden inside the fiction.

College stress isn’t just about grades. It’s about guilt. Guilt for wanting more. Guilt for not being able to fix everything. Guilt for dreaming in a city where survival already feels like a full-time job.

But there’s another truth too.

R doesn’t quit.

He keeps writing code on crowded trains, balancing his laptop on his knees while the subway rattles underneath him. He keeps applying to internships he feels underqualified for. He keeps believing that maybe one day his parents won’t worry about bills the way they do now, that maybe one day the sacrifices will make sense.

This story isn’t real—but the feelings inside it are.

If you grew up in an immigrant household or are the first in your family to attend college, what responsibility did you carry earlier than most people your age?