pov: you’re the eldest daughter

as a first daughter, it’s a struggle to put into words the emotional heavy baggage you carry, of which only a quarter of a fraction is yours. you’re not allowed to exist outside the confines of your siblings' well-being.

your wants, desires, and demands are thrown to the back burner. you roll up your sleeves, every time, to fix your siblings’ problems. you struggle to climb the ladder of expectations set by everyone around you—to be a ‘good’ example for your siblings, to lean into your ‘nurturing’ side when, in fact, you need nurturing.

you carry so much weight on your hips, you’re lean from it all. when they ask you why your age bears more years than it should, you reflect on the responsibilities handed down to you as soon as your milk teeth started falling out. of the internal battles you duel. you smile to show you’re pleased to be seen as that important. but why does your importance in this world have to do with your inability to say no to asks?

if there’s one struggle i’m well-acquainted with, it’s that of being the firstborn daughter. i saw life happen so fast at the age of barely six. and i’ve wondered, many times, if this is a rite of passage for many firstborn daughters, especially in an african home. if the ones before us carried the weight of the sky simply because they’re female and came first, as if patriarchy wasn’t already a load to bear. if they had to also be the gatekeepers of family values and traditions.

i wondered if they said, “i’m fine,” before they were even asked. if they hid their problems because the ones of their siblings existed, and they had to play the hero. or shero?

as a firstborn daughter, you know you’re loved but, sadly, you always think that love is tangled with your performance in people-pleasing, with low tolerance for comfort. with how good you are at being the sacrificial lamb. not merely because you should be loved as a human being deserving of love. sometimes, it feels like no one hears you. and when you complain, you’re asked, “how can you be so selfish?”

because of this, you don’t ask for help anymore—you’ve become so self-reliant. you don’t moan when the shoe is too tight. you wear independence like a badge of honor. you take on more than you can handle. you’ve developed a strong facade when, in reality, you want to be cared for, to be listened to, and to be understood.

note, however, that i do not see this entirely as a curse. there’s also the blessing that comes with this. for one, as a firstborn daughter, you’re prepared for life’s challenges—you’ve become tough and therefore hard to break. you also get advanced preparation for motherhood. there’s also the good part of being numero uno. so, it’s not all negatives.

frankly, i wouldn’t ever think of being born in a different position in the family. being the firstborn daughter allowed me more time to spend with my dad before he passed on. i also love caring for my siblings and putting their needs first, even as i’m learning to extend grace to myself.

i may give you all the tips to help make the burden lighter, but i’m sure it’s something you know already. it’s only safe for me to say that you should extend yourself some grace, too. let go of the shame and guilt when you decide to put yourself first and assert your needs. be patient with yourself. and if you have to reparent yourself to meet the needs that were not there, so be it.

as i wrap this up, the song by Encanto, surface pressure, comes to mind, and i realize how much i relate to it. listen to it if you can, but be reminded that it’s okay not to be perfect.

to say no when the demands are too high for you. you don’t have to carry all the crushing weights of expectations, and you are loved regardless. from one elder daughter to another.