They call it responsibility. I call it exhaustion.
Being the eldest daughter means being born into expectations you never agreed to. Before you even learn how to spell your name, you’re already learning how to spell sacrifice. You carry the weight of your family’s dreams while hiding your own beneath quiet smiles and tired eyes. It’s a crown of gold that feels like iron.
They say you’re strong — the pillar, the pride, the one who always knows what to do. But strength, when forced, becomes a burden. You learned to fold your feelings neatly into the corners of your chest so no one else trips over them. You became good at pretending that responsibility feels like purpose, and that tiredness is just another form of love.
There are days you want to scream, to ask why love must always look like service. Why you must be the one to understand, to forgive, to stretch yourself thin just to make space for everyone else. And yet, you stay silent — because silence keeps the peace. Because silence is what eldest daughters are best at.
You give and give until you’re gone, a sun that shines but never dawns.
You’re expected to be the role model, the listener, the one who knows how to lead — even when you’re still figuring out how to breathe. You can’t show weakness, because weakness is contagious. You can’t rest, because rest is mistaken for neglect. And you can’t cry, because if you do, who will be strong for everyone else?
They tell you to be grateful — for being trusted, for being loved, for being relied upon. But being relied upon is not the same as being cared for. There is a loneliness that comes with being the dependable one. The kind that whispers at night, reminding you that no one ever checks if you’re okay.
You are the keeper of secrets, the planner of birthdays, the unpaid therapist, the family’s emergency plan. You were taught to carry, not to crumble. To lead, not to lean. To survive, not to rest.
And yet, somewhere beneath all that pressure is a little girl who just wanted to be held. Who wanted to be told that it’s okay to fail, to cry, to be lost. Who wanted to stop being strong for a moment — and just be.
Still, you keep going. Because that’s what eldest daughters do. You endure, you adjust, you continue — even when no one notices the cost. You convince yourself that exhaustion is normal, that breaking is a privilege you cannot afford.
But one day, maybe, you’ll learn that it’s okay to put the crown down. That love doesn’t have to hurt. That being the eldest daughter doesn’t mean being everyone’s savior all the time. Because even the strongest pillars need someone to lean on.
And when that day comes, may you finally breathe — not as the eldest, not as the caretaker, but simply as you.
via Alleya Krisha Naveros
