diary of the tired first born child 💔

I don’t think anyone really understands how heavy it feels to be the firstborn daughter. People think it’s just about being “the oldest” but it’s more than that. It’s waking up every day carrying responsibilities you never asked for. It’s being expected to be strong even when you feel like you’re breaking. It’s raising yourself while trying to raise everyone else too.

I grew up believing that if I did everything right, maybe my parents would see me  really see me. But they don’t. They only see the mistakes. They only see the things I didn’t do, not the thousand things I did silently, without complaining. They scream, they blame, they break me down with words they’ll never even remember saying. And then they move on as if nothing happened, while I lie awake replaying every syllable in my head.

I try so hard to fit in. I try to smile and act like everything is fine, even when it’s not. But the truth is, I don’t really have anyone. Friends? Not really. People drift in and out, but no one stays. No one ever seems to notice when I go quiet or when I disappear for a while. It’s like I’m screaming underwater  struggling, gasping  and the world is just walking by, oblivious.

Sometimes, I wonder what the point is. Why try so hard when it feels like I’m always failing? Why keep holding it all together when no one would even notice if I let it fall apart? There are nights when I stare at the ceiling and think about giving up not because I’m weak, but because I’m exhausted. Because being the “strong one” is killing me slowly, piece by piece.

People talk about family as if it’s a safety net a place where love lives. But mine feels like a battlefield. My parents wear their narcissism like armor, and every word they throw at me is another wound I have to patch up myself. They don’t care about my dreams. They don’t care about my pain. They just care that I keep playing the role they wrote for me — the obedient daughter, the perfect example, the one who never talks back.

But here’s the truth I’m trying to hold onto: I am more than what they say. I am more than the loneliness. I am more than the mistakes they scream about. And even if I have no one right now, even if I feel invisible, my story doesn’t end here.

I don’t know how long it will take, but I want to believe there’s a version of me out there free, healed, and happy who looks back and thanks me for not giving up. For surviving the nights when the weight felt unbearable. For choosing myself, even when no one else did.

And maybe that’s what being the firstborn daughter is really about not just carrying the weight, but learning that one day, I get to put it down. One day, I get to breathe without apologizing for it.

Until then, I’ll keep going. Quietly. Bravely. Even when it hurts.