Meet Lynn Dao, Ed.D., M.A., a first-generation Vietnamese American who earned a doctorate from Teachers College, Columbia University, last May, and is now an education researcher navigating a tough job market. Here, she reflects on her academic journey and career path, what she learned from a former First Lady, and the challenges she faced as a first-generation student from a low-income background.

On her path to college and why she chose Barnard College/Columbia University

I immigrated to the United States from Vietnam when I was three years old, arriving the day before 9/11, and grew up in Portland, Oregon. My family relied on food stamps, and with my dad as the only income earner, we lived paycheck to paycheck. My parents still do not speak English, so I spent my childhood translating everything from school paperwork to doctor appointments. College was something my parents hoped for, but it never felt financially possible.

Everything changed when I learned about Leadership Enterprise for a Diverse America (LEDA) during my junior year of high school. It was the first time I saw a real pathway to college. With LEDA’s guidance, I applied to 13 schools and ultimately chose Barnard College, Columbia University. I was also incredibly fortunate to be accepted into the Higher Education Opportunity Program (HEOP), whose summer bridge program gave me a crucial academic foundation and a community before my first semester.

Choosing Barnard and Columbia felt like stepping into a world I never knew I could access. I wanted to be pushed, challenged, and surrounded by ambitious, passionate people. New York City offered opportunities and perspectives that I didn’t grow up with. I knew it was a place where I could grow into the leader and researcher I wanted to become.

Students like me are not liabilities; we are catalysts for change. And when institutions truly invest in first-gen and low-income students, the impact ripples across families, communities, and generations. If you want to understand first-gen success, ask not just what we’ve achieved, but what we’ve had to carry to get here.

On college culture shock, COVID-19, and going to grad school

Even with that support from LEDA and HEOP, the culture shock was intense. At orientation, someone asked which boarding or private school I had attended, an assumption far from my reality. I didn’t know that most students took more than four classes their first semester or how quickly that could put me behind. Many peers had parents who edited their essays or hired private tutors, while I learned to navigate the hidden curriculum through office hours, teaching assistants, and academic advising. I also remember my first-year adviser reviewing my ungraded HEOP summer courses and telling me I was not academically prepared for Barnard. The joke is on her, because I graduated cum laude and became one of eight Barnard students that year to receive a Fulbright to teach in Vietnam.

When the pandemic hit during the last month of my senior year, everything shifted again. I was on spring break when classes went remote. With visa offices closed and international travel uncertain, it became clear that I wouldn’t be able to begin my Fulbright grant. Continuing my education made the most sense, so I decided to pursue my fully funded doctorate at Teachers College, which provided stability at a moment when nothing else felt guaranteed.

Looking back, the academic pressure and stress culture at Columbia were overwhelming. Professors weren’t allowed to give too many A’s, and we had grade deflation. Imposter syndrome, 24-hour libraries and dining halls (how NYC!), and a culture where burnout was normalized shaped much of my experience. Navigating that environment without generational support was difficult. I remember asking my major adviser for a recommendation for graduate school during the fall of my senior year, and they discouraged me from applying straight out of undergrad because they believed I needed real-world work experience. When I asked what they did after college, they told me they had worked in diners and flipped burgers to gain life experience before eventually landing roles in their fields.

Those weren’t options I could afford. I needed stability and income immediately, both to support myself and to help my parents retire. I had to channel every bit of resilience, grit, and hard work to build the future my parents sacrificed everything for when we started over in this country.

What led her to study public and mental health

My parents grew up during the Vietnam War, and the trauma of the fall of Saigon shaped my childhood in ways we never talked about. Mental health didn’t exist in our vocabulary, yet it impacted every part of our family life. Learning more about our history helped me recognize how deeply this intergenerational trauma shaped my identity as a Vietnamese American. Public and mental health offered a way to understand that legacy and support families and communities who carry similar histories.

I entered college undecided, but mentors and instructors I met through LEDA — many of whom had done the Peace Corps and Fulbright — introduced me to international development and global health. My internships in northern Uganda and at Bloomberg Philanthropies helped me translate those interests into meaningful public health practice. Those experiences ultimately led me to Teachers College, where I conducted mental health research. I became especially interested in how institutions support (or fail to support) students’ mental health. One population I noticed was almost entirely absent from research was Southeast Asian international students. As a Vietnamese immigrant but not an international student myself, I had to check my own assumptions, but it felt important to center their lived experiences, their mental health needs, and the gaps in institutional support.

On paying for college and the financial tradeoffs she’s made

I was incredibly fortunate to receive the Gates Millennium Scholarship as part of its final cohort in 2016. Out of nearly 57,000 applicants, only 1,000 students were selected. The scholarship covered my full unmet financial need for both undergraduate and graduate school. Without Gates, attending Barnard and Teachers College these past nine years would not have been financially possible, and being debt-free in this tough job market has truly been a blessing.

Even with a full scholarship, New York City brought a new level of financial pressure. I had to make a budget my first week of college because every dollar mattered — it truly costs money just to breathe in this city. I moved between two different worlds: networking with alumni and attending galas in penthouses or the Plaza Hotel to get free meals and make connections, then heading straight to my babysitting job after class every day so I could afford basic expenses like a subway swipe and food. Even buying a winter coat or business attire felt overwhelming because everything costs so much, but the hustle never stopped.

I worked all four years of undergrad — babysitting, cat sitting, watering plants, helping people move, anything I could pick up. In graduate school, I temped and worked full time every year just to afford rent and survive. And unlike many of my peers, there’s no safety net, no trust fund — just me making it work every month. I had to get creative — joining Facebook groups for gigs, finding every free resource possible, and only doing free things in the city. These experiences made the wealth gap impossible to ignore and required sacrifices most of my peers never had to consider.

How meeting a former First Lady gave her a new lease on college life

In the summer before my first year of college, during my HEOP program at Barnard, LEDA invited me to the White House as part of former First Lady Michelle Obama’s “Beating the Odds” Summit. Walking through the White House as an immigrant felt surreal, and I kept thinking about how far my family had traveled from the fall of Saigon to this moment in Washington, DC. When the former First Lady shook my hand, she looked me in the eye and told me that students like me belonged in every room where decisions are made. She also spoke openly about her own experience of being told she was not “Princeton material” and how she chose to believe in herself anyway, later going on to get her second Ivy League degree from Harvard Law.

That afternoon, we wrote letters to our future selves that would be mailed to us at the end of our first year. In mine, I reminded myself that pursuing my education was not abandoning my family, that I was not selfish for leaving home, and that I was not “lucky” to be there but had earned it through hard work and perseverance. I told myself I had already overcome challenges greater than any ahead and that I deserved to be there, even on the days I might doubt it.

How universities can better support students

Universities must recognize that financial aid is not just about tuition. Students need support to pay for food and meal plans, housing, transportation, winter clothing, professional attire, and emergency expenses. Schools should also expand access to paid internships so first-gen and low-income students aren’t forced to choose between earning money and gaining experience. Culturally responsive mental health care and faculty training are essential, as are representation and strong mentorship.

Access to travel, conferences, and study abroad opportunities also matter. I’ve been fortunate to visit 37 countries, and every trip was possible because I knew how to find funding and grants. Those experiences expanded my worldview and grounded me as a global citizen. First-gen and low-income students deserve the same opportunities to broaden their perspectives and see beyond the limits of their circumstances.

Reflections on the first-gen experience and advice for other first-gen students

The first-generation journey is not just academic — it’s emotional, intergenerational, and shaped by the political moment we’re living in. As a Vietnamese immigrant and a woman of color in public health, I carry my family’s history of displacement, sacrifice, and resilience into spaces that were never built with students like me in mind. Yet these are the very voices being pushed out of higher education — thanks, in part, to new federal limits on student borrowing and student loan forgiveness — at a time when they’re needed most. Public student loan forgiveness is essential for first-generation scholars working in education, research, and public service. Any rollback would disproportionately harm the first-gen community, many of whom intentionally chose mission-driven careers with modest salaries over tech or finance because we believe in the work.

Students like me are not liabilities; we are catalysts for change. And when institutions truly invest in first-gen and low-income students, the impact ripples across families, communities, and generations. If you want to understand first-gen success, ask not just what we’ve achieved, but what we’ve had to carry to get here.

My advice to first-gen students: you belong, even on the days it feels like you don’t. Ask questions and ask for what you need — without apology — because if you don’t ask, you’ll never know, and it’s OK to let people tell you “No.” You can try another avenue and think creatively — always do what you gotta do. Seek mentors early and be proactive in building relationships. Find your community and hold onto the people who support you. And remember that choosing your education and your future isn’t selfish — you’re honoring your family’s sacrifices and creating new possibilities for the generations who come after you.

On what’s next

Funding cuts and broader attacks on higher education have significantly shaped my next steps. I recently presented my research in Washington, DC, at the American Public Health Association, which gave me hope and reaffirmed the importance of this work. But I’ve also been searching for a job for over six months and have had more than 100 interviews. The rejections have been difficult, and the cuts to research, public health, and international education, not to mention the rise of AI, have made the job market even more challenging. These realities have forced me to think carefully about my next steps. For now, I’m taking things day by day, leaning into the uncertainty, and remaining patient.

What I do know is that I want to channel my lived experiences and research expertise into work that truly supports students and centers their mental health and wellbeing. I want to make sure they have access to the resources, care, and opportunities they need to succeed and feel seen.

See our dashboard on the new graduate loan limits and the intersection of race and gender

Series: Getting To & Through College