Well, don't let it get you down, if someone says you have first world problems. And don't take it as a personal attack.
When I was 18, I had the opportunity to volunteer at an orphanage in Mexico. It was only about 2 hours south of the border with California, and about 3 hours from my home town where I grew up.
To get there, we had to get off the main highway, and take rutted dirt roads high into the chapparral covered hills. Every now and again, the van would splash through a creek that ran right through the road. We had to stop a few times, to let cowboys or shepherds cross with their animals.
Tin houses with terra cotta roofs, with high walls all around the properties.
We finally got to the orphanage. Day one, the children did a little presentation, en Espanol, teaching us Americans the story of Easter. I watched ardently, as I was not raised a Christian, and this was sort of new to me. I was enchanted by the pantomime.
Then the directors of the orphanage did a presentation to the volunteers about the children who were at the orphanage.
One little toddler girl, her father was abusive. Burned the mother with cigarettes. He abandoned the family. Later the mother gave up the daughter to her aunt to raise her. The mother later died of a heroin overdose.
The aunt was impatient with the girl. She tied her to a chair in the kitchen, and left her there for days. She would feed her meager amounts, here and there. The girl would toilet right in her seat, and her aunt would beat her for it. The little girl got free once, and the aunt beat her with a belt and tied her tighter, with more rope. The little girl languished in the kitchen for weeks, tied to the chair. She even stopped crying, because what's the use?
I don't remember the smaller details, but the neighbor found the girl, and had no money for a hospital. Police in that country didn't care. Somehow missionaries found out and brought the girl to the orphanage.
She has up and down her arms and back, scars from the welts, in the shape of the ropes, up and down her back. She was four years old.
Another little girl, the orphanage directors figure she must have been about two or three. They found her wandering around garbage heaps in Tijuana. All alone. Filthy. Starving. She had been wearing the same shoes so long, that the hospital had to surgically remove her shoes from her feet, because her skin and bones had grown into the shoes.
There were almost two hundred children and teens that I worked with at the orphanage. All with similar origin stories.
Yes, you have first world problems.