People said I was mature, strong, reliable. What they didn’t see was the emotional load quietly building beneath the surface. I held space for others, but no one taught me how to hold space for myself. I became good at showing up, good at fixing, at managing, at smoothing things over. And yet, when it came to my own confusion or exhaustion — I kept that in. There wasn’t really room for it. By my twenties, I was helping run a company. No one asked if I could handle it. They just assumed I would. That I’d find my way to the meeting, the event, the deadline. That I’d “just know” what to do. And I did my best to keep up. I didn’t complain. I didn’t expect praise. But deep down, I sometimes wished someone would notice the weight I was carrying.
That’s the part people don’t always understand about being this kind of “eldest daughter.” It’s not about babysitting or chores. It’s the invisible responsibility — the emotional anchoring, the quiet problem-solving, the way you absorb stress before it spills onto others. It’s the way people rely on you without ever checking if you’re okay.
There were moments I felt invisible. Like my value only showed when something went wrong. I became my own comforter, my own soft landing. I learned to be okay on my own — because I had to be. No one asked why my eyes were red, and I stopped expecting them to. And yet, I’m not bitter. I’m proud of the woman I’ve become. But sometimes, I wonder what it would’ve been like to grow up being held, instead of always doing the holding. To be seen, not just for how capable I am, but for the human underneath.
Maybe we need to remind ourselves — and each other — that even the strong ones need softness. Even the “eldest daughters” deserve to be asked, “How are you, really?” and to be loved not just for how well they carry others, but for who they are when they’re finally allowed to set the weight down.