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Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
I AM A CARETAKER.
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"Seeing how my family had to sacrifice their name just to survive is really insane to me. I want to be able to carry my current family's name with pride."
Cambodia wasn’t just the country Richiny's family came from, it was a place they had to escape. Under the Khmer Rouge regime, her grandparents and mother were forced to flee for their lives. The genocide wiped out nearly two million people. “They lost everything, land, money, culture. Even their names. My family changed their last name just to stay alive.”
Her mother eventually came to the U.S. through an arranged marriage, first landing in Long Beach, California, before moving to Denver. Richiny was born there, and from the very beginning, she felt the weight of her family’s sacrifices. “We were never the type of family where my parents told stories about their childhoods. There was too much trauma. Too much they had to forget just to keep going.”
Instead, their stories came through actions: her mom working long hours while raising kids, her dad juggling jobs while starting a business from scratch. “They didn’t sit us down and say, ‘We came to America for a better life.’ They lived it. Every single day.” Her mom’s most common phrase growing up was, “Go to school. Make money.” That was the dream. Not glitz and glamour—just stability. Security. A life where their kids didn’t have to endure what they had.
As a kid, Richiny often felt like she was living in two worlds. At school, she was surrounded by classmates with carefree childhoods—weekend sleepovers, mall outings, vacations. At home, she was helping with the family business, doing homework in between working, and staying up late so the family could keep things running. “It was a routine I never questioned. You come home, you do your work, then you help your parents. That’s just how it was.”
Even though she understood the purpose behind it, there were moments of quiet resentment. “I used to wish I had more freedom. More room to just be a kid.” But now, as an adult, she can trace her work ethic, resilience, and empathy straight back to those long nights helping her parents. “I know how hard it is to make money. I know how much effort it takes to just get by. That’s something a lot of people don’t learn until much later in life.”
Despite all this, her parents never fully opened up about what they had endured. “There are gaps in my family history I’ll probably never fill in. They don’t talk about what happened during the genocide. I think they still carry the fear.” She tells the story of her family’s last name with a mix of awe and sadness: “Our last name today starts with an S, but it used to start with PH. My family dropped the original name in Cambodia because my grandpa used to be a general , so we changed it to hide."
Carrying that legacy, Richiny found herself wanting to give back in her own way. She’s currently on the path to becoming a Physician Assistant, a decision shaped by watching healthcare inequities play out in real time. “I worked at a clinic in Tacoma where half our patients were undocumented. They didn’t have insurance. We had to get creative, $50 visits, medication coupons, sliding scale payments. It made me realize how inaccessible healthcare still is for so many people who look like me, speak like my family, live like we did.”
For Richiny, becoming a PA isn’t just about personal success, it’s about representation. It’s about being someone who can bridge that gap between patients and providers. “Doctors don’t always realize when their language doesn’t land. When they say something medical and expect everyone to understand. But I think about my mom sitting in an exam room. Would she even know what they’re saying? Would she feel safe enough to ask?”
That vision of care, building trust and breaking down barriers, is what drives her now. And while she’s still learning how to balance the cultural pressure to be “successful” with her own definition of fulfillment, she’s doing it with clarity and conviction. “Yes, I want to make money. But not at the cost of my mental health. Not at the cost of my relationships. I want stability, but I also want meaning.”
Join the story
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
"Seeing how my family had to sacrifice their name just to survive is really insane to me. I want to be able to carry my current family's name with pride."
“My family is from Phnom Penh, Cambodia,” Richiny begins, “but when my mom talks about it, it’s always tied to pain.” Cambodia wasn’t just the country her family came from—it was a place they had to escape. Under the Khmer Rouge regime, Richiny’s grandparents and mother were forced to flee for their lives. The genocide wiped out nearly two million people. “They lost everything—land, money, culture. Even their names. My family changed their last name just to stay alive.”
Her mother eventually came to the U.S. through an arranged marriage, first landing in Long Beach, California, before moving to Denver. Richiny was born there, and from the very beginning, she felt the weight of her family’s sacrifices. “We were never the type of family where my parents told stories about their childhoods. There was too much trauma. Too much they had to forget just to keep going.”
Instead, their stories came through actions: her mom working long hours while raising kids, her dad juggling jobs while starting a business from scratch. “They didn’t sit us down and say, ‘We came to America for a better life.’ They lived it. Every single day.” Her mom’s most common phrase growing up was, “Go to school. Make money.” That was the dream. Not glitz and glamour—just stability. Security. A life where their kids didn’t have to endure what they had.
As a kid, Richiny often felt like she was living in two worlds. At school, she was surrounded by classmates with carefree childhoods—weekend sleepovers, mall outings, vacations. At home, she was helping with the family business, doing homework in between cleaning or folding towels, and staying up late so the family could keep things running. “It was a routine I never questioned. You come home, you do your work, then you help your parents. That’s just how it was.”
Even though she understood the purpose behind it, there were moments of quiet resentment. “I used to wish I had more freedom. More room to just be a kid.” But now, as an adult, she can trace her work ethic, resilience, and empathy straight back to those long nights helping her parents. “I know how hard it is to make money. I know how much effort it takes to just get by. That’s something a lot of people don’t learn until much later in life.”
Despite all this, her parents never fully opened up about what they had endured. “There are gaps in my family history I’ll probably never fill in. They don’t talk about what happened during the genocide. I think they still carry the fear.” She tells the story of her family’s last name with a mix of awe and sadness: “Our last name today starts with an S, but it used to start with PH. My family dropped the original name in Cambodia because it was too recognizable. They were being hunted. To this day, they’ve never changed it back. That’s how real the fear still is.”
Carrying that legacy, Richiny found herself wanting to give back in her own way. She’s currently on the path to becoming a Physician Assistant—a decision shaped by watching healthcare inequities play out in real time. “I worked at a clinic in Tacoma where half our patients were undocumented. They didn’t have insurance. We had to get creative—$50 visits, medication coupons, sliding scale payments. It made me realize how inaccessible healthcare still is for so many people who look like me, speak like my family, live like we did.”
For Richiny, becoming a PA isn’t just about personal success—it’s about representation. It’s about being someone who can bridge that gap between patients and providers. “Doctors don’t always realize when their language doesn’t land. When they say something medical and expect everyone to understand. But I think about my mom sitting in an exam room. Would she even know what they’re saying? Would she feel safe enough to ask?”
That vision of care—of building trust and breaking down barriers—is what drives her now. And while she’s still learning how to balance the cultural pressure to be “successful” with her own definition of fulfillment, she’s doing it with clarity and conviction. “Yes, I want to make money. But not at the cost of my mental health. Not at the cost of my relationships. I want stability, but I also want meaning.”
When asked how she sees her identity now—this layered, intergenerational story of trauma, migration, and hope—she pauses. “I’m still figuring it out. But I know this: I carry a lot with me. I carry my grandparents’ escape, my parents’ sacrifice, the name that was changed to survive. And now, I get to choose how I carry it forward. That’s powerful.”
I AM A CARETAKER.
I AM A CARETAKER.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Scroll to read more
"Seeing how my family had to sacrifice their name just to survive is really insane to me. I want to be able to carry my current family's name with pride."
Cambodia wasn’t just the country Richiny's family came from, it was a place they had to escape. Under the Khmer Rouge regime, her grandparents and mother were forced to flee for their lives. The genocide wiped out nearly two million people. “They lost everything, land, money, culture. Even their names. My family changed their last name just to stay alive.”
Her mother eventually came to the U.S. through an arranged marriage, first landing in Long Beach, California, before moving to Denver. Richiny was born there, and from the very beginning, she felt the weight of her family’s sacrifices. “We were never the type of family where my parents told stories about their childhoods. There was too much trauma. Too much they had to forget just to keep going.”
Instead, their stories came through actions: her mom working long hours while raising kids, her dad juggling jobs while starting a business from scratch. “They didn’t sit us down and say, ‘We came to America for a better life.’ They lived it. Every single day.” Her mom’s most common phrase growing up was, “Go to school. Make money.” That was the dream. Not glitz and glamour—just stability. Security. A life where their kids didn’t have to endure what they had.
As a kid, Richiny often felt like she was living in two worlds. At school, she was surrounded by classmates with carefree childhoods—weekend sleepovers, mall outings, vacations. At home, she was helping with the family business, doing homework in between working, and staying up late so the family could keep things running. “It was a routine I never questioned. You come home, you do your work, then you help your parents. That’s just how it was.”
Even though she understood the purpose behind it, there were moments of quiet resentment. “I used to wish I had more freedom. More room to just be a kid.” But now, as an adult, she can trace her work ethic, resilience, and empathy straight back to those long nights helping her parents. “I know how hard it is to make money. I know how much effort it takes to just get by. That’s something a lot of people don’t learn until much later in life.”
Despite all this, her parents never fully opened up about what they had endured. “There are gaps in my family history I’ll probably never fill in. They don’t talk about what happened during the genocide. I think they still carry the fear.” She tells the story of her family’s last name with a mix of awe and sadness: “Our last name today starts with an S, but it used to start with PH. My family dropped the original name in Cambodia because my grandpa used to be a general , so we changed it to hide."
Carrying that legacy, Richiny found herself wanting to give back in her own way. She’s currently on the path to becoming a Physician Assistant, a decision shaped by watching healthcare inequities play out in real time. “I worked at a clinic in Tacoma where half our patients were undocumented. They didn’t have insurance. We had to get creative, $50 visits, medication coupons, sliding scale payments. It made me realize how inaccessible healthcare still is for so many people who look like me, speak like my family, live like we did.”
For Richiny, becoming a PA isn’t just about personal success, it’s about representation. It’s about being someone who can bridge that gap between patients and providers. “Doctors don’t always realize when their language doesn’t land. When they say something medical and expect everyone to understand. But I think about my mom sitting in an exam room. Would she even know what they’re saying? Would she feel safe enough to ask?”
That vision of care, building trust and breaking down barriers, is what drives her now. And while she’s still learning how to balance the cultural pressure to be “successful” with her own definition of fulfillment, she’s doing it with clarity and conviction. “Yes, I want to make money. But not at the cost of my mental health. Not at the cost of my relationships. I want stability, but I also want meaning.”
The struggle that it took my parents to come here and become successful in a foreign place is something that is always on my mind.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Scroll to read more
"Seeing how my family had to sacrifice their name just to survive is really insane to me. I want to be able to carry my current family's name with pride."
Cambodia wasn’t just the country Richiny's family came from, it was a place they had to escape. Under the Khmer Rouge regime, her grandparents and mother were forced to flee for their lives. The genocide wiped out nearly two million people. “They lost everything, land, money, culture. Even their names. My family changed their last name just to stay alive.”
Her mother eventually came to the U.S. through an arranged marriage, first landing in Long Beach, California, before moving to Denver. Richiny was born there, and from the very beginning, she felt the weight of her family’s sacrifices. “We were never the type of family where my parents told stories about their childhoods. There was too much trauma. Too much they had to forget just to keep going.”
Instead, their stories came through actions: her mom working long hours while raising kids, her dad juggling jobs while starting a business from scratch. “They didn’t sit us down and say, ‘We came to America for a better life.’ They lived it. Every single day.” Her mom’s most common phrase growing up was, “Go to school. Make money.” That was the dream. Not glitz and glamour—just stability. Security. A life where their kids didn’t have to endure what they had.
As a kid, Richiny often felt like she was living in two worlds. At school, she was surrounded by classmates with carefree childhoods—weekend sleepovers, mall outings, vacations. At home, she was helping with the family business, doing homework in between working, and staying up late so the family could keep things running. “It was a routine I never questioned. You come home, you do your work, then you help your parents. That’s just how it was.”
Even though she understood the purpose behind it, there were moments of quiet resentment. “I used to wish I had more freedom. More room to just be a kid.” But now, as an adult, she can trace her work ethic, resilience, and empathy straight back to those long nights helping her parents. “I know how hard it is to make money. I know how much effort it takes to just get by. That’s something a lot of people don’t learn until much later in life.”
Despite all this, her parents never fully opened up about what they had endured. “There are gaps in my family history I’ll probably never fill in. They don’t talk about what happened during the genocide. I think they still carry the fear.” She tells the story of her family’s last name with a mix of awe and sadness: “Our last name today starts with an S, but it used to start with PH. My family dropped the original name in Cambodia because my grandpa used to be a general , so we changed it to hide."
Carrying that legacy, Richiny found herself wanting to give back in her own way. She’s currently on the path to becoming a Physician Assistant, a decision shaped by watching healthcare inequities play out in real time. “I worked at a clinic in Tacoma where half our patients were undocumented. They didn’t have insurance. We had to get creative, $50 visits, medication coupons, sliding scale payments. It made me realize how inaccessible healthcare still is for so many people who look like me, speak like my family, live like we did.”
For Richiny, becoming a PA isn’t just about personal success, it’s about representation. It’s about being someone who can bridge that gap between patients and providers. “Doctors don’t always realize when their language doesn’t land. When they say something medical and expect everyone to understand. But I think about my mom sitting in an exam room. Would she even know what they’re saying? Would she feel safe enough to ask?”
That vision of care, building trust and breaking down barriers, is what drives her now. And while she’s still learning how to balance the cultural pressure to be “successful” with her own definition of fulfillment, she’s doing it with clarity and conviction. “Yes, I want to make money. But not at the cost of my mental health. Not at the cost of my relationships. I want stability, but I also want meaning.”