I still remember the day when my mother stopped me mid-sentence, saying,

“Aariz, mind your language, especially in front of your siblings.”

To me, what I said wasn’t offensive at all, just a casual “Abey chal na!” while I was on a call with a friend. But as I hung up, I saw my younger brother and sister watching me, taking note of every move I made. Something changed inside me right then.

It wasn’t just about me anymore. It was then that I realised — I, the firstborn, the eldest, had to lead by example. I began to feel the pressure to set a good example for my younger siblings. From then on, I began to measure my words, my tone and even my laughter. I started thinking twice before saying anything. And without noticing, I began to grow up a little faster than I should have.

The child who had to grow up too soon

Sometimes, when I see children on the roadside — the ones selling flowers or wiping windshields at traffic signals — my eyes always find the eldest. That small child, barely nine or maybe seven, is taking care of the younger ones, scolding them, feeding them and protecting them. Because that’s what being the eldest sibling looks like. You’re still a child inside, but you learn to hold yourself up like an adult.

That image always hits me. No matter what your culture, background or place in society is, if you’re the firstborn, you carry a tonne of weight. Many don’t even realise it, but the moment your mother calls you “Bari behen” or “Bara bhai,” something shifts. You suddenly feel older than your years, responsible somehow. It makes you believe you’re the one in charge — automatically. And with time, you start to notice how those responsibilities quietly balloon, growing without warning. So you begin to mould yourself around them.

It starts with you giving up small things first: the last piece of dessert, the better seat, the right to complain. You start waiting for your turn — not because you’re told to, but because it feels like that’s what a “good eldest sibling” should do.

You start letting go of parts of your own childhood — your freedom, your carefree moments, your time to just ‘be a kid’. You still grow up, but differently. Saying this doesn’t mean that you are ill-fated — no, it’s just that you are given more responsibilities, because yes, you were the firstborn!

Carefree turning into caretaker

The change in responsibilities doesn’t come overnight; it’s a process of days, months and even years — the feelings and duties build up gradually. For example, you’re playing, arguing over the same meal and laughing. But after some time, the situation is the same — only now you’re the one stopping fights between your siblings, trying to calm them down, trying to explain why things are the way they are. You’re there when Mum is about to scold them, covering for them when Dad gets mad.

You feel like their second parent, even if you’re just a kid too. Everyone assumes you are patient, strong and wise. But no one is born ready for being the eldest with tonnes of responsibilities. You just learn as you go — messing up, falling and figuring it out the hard way.

There are moments when you yourself don’t even know how to handle things, but because you are given responsibility, you figure it out — and the results could be anything.

The guilt that no one talks about

Only the eldest siblings can truly understand this strange kind of guilt. It’s not about doing something wrong — it’s that voice in your head saying, “You’re older, you shouldn’t feel this way.”

So you feel guilty for wanting space, guilty for being tired of helping, of always being the one who has to stay composed, and even guilty for saying ‘no’ once.

That reminds me of a particular day when I got home, completely drained from college. My younger sister was already waiting for me. She insisted I help her with her project, which was due the next day. I told her to wait for Dad. I was tired and had my own things to attend to. She went back, disappointed.

I lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. That guilt… it started crawling in. Slow. Heavy. I tried to ignore it. Couldn’t. So, I pushed my tired self aside and called her back. We worked on it till midnight. She left smiling. Me? I felt this strange mix of warmth and emptiness.

This is where care and guilt get all tangled up. You can’t even tell which is which. Parents and others praise your maturity, but they forget that you’re still a kid too. Doesn’t mean they don’t love you. It’s just that parents expect you to hold the gaps they can’t, to carry the weight — quietly, without complaining.

The reflex of love

Then one day, I saw my younger brother being bullied outside school. I didn’t think — I just ran to his rescue. With a strength I didn’t know I had, I felt like a superhero saving the day. I was amazed at myself for feeling this way. And yes, my brother also felt proud and grateful.

That’s when I realised — being the eldest isn’t something you perform; it becomes an instinct. You don’t plan to protect; you just do. Even if it means taking the hit first.

That instinct follows you into adulthood. You notice things that your sibling might never — the tiredness in their eyes, the shift in their tone, the weight in their silence. You learn to read emotions. No matter how old your siblings get, you will remain their eldest. Your experience, feelings and emotions for them will remain unique, and they will always look towards your guidance. You will notice everything, you will wait for them to speak — and if they don’t, you will step in as a guardian angel to emotionally support them. Because it’s who you are — the eldest, their second home, the person they look for in a crowd.

The hope and pride

Being the eldest sibling is not a walk in the park. The relationship comes with a heavy burden of responsibilities. It tests your patience, your limits and sometimes your heart. But I’ve also realised there’s a kind of pride in it that makes you strong and confident. Because despite the weight, I’ve watched my siblings grow into kind, humble youngsters. I’ve seen them laugh freely, take risks and live the moments I once had to skip.

And maybe that’s what makes it all worth it — knowing that somewhere in their ease, there’s a piece of my effort. A part of me that made their path a little smoother, even if mine was rougher. Maybe it’s in the way they handle things calmly, or the confidence they carry — traces of lessons they didn’t have to learn the hard way, because I already did.

I feel proud and triumphant when I watch them step into the world without fear, laughing without the weight I once carried.

I am not perfect, and I still want to feel invisible or too tired to keep being “the strong one” or “the eldest one.” But then I remind myself — my siblings have seen me hold it together every time. They have learnt that strength. And maybe that’s enough to know I was the one they looked towards when things felt uncertain.

Maybe that’s what being the eldest sibling really means — holding strong for your siblings and filling the gap your parents left behind.

Published in Dawn, Young World, October 18th, 2025