I was five, hardly capable of taking care of myself, when I was handed the responsibility of a baby sister. Every mistake she made reflected on me. I was scolded for not being an exemplary sister. Deep down, I always wondered where I was truly at fault. I was just a child, still trying to make sense of the world, yet I was expected to guide someone else through it.

By the time I turned ten, my parents would leave me in charge of my siblings. I wasn’t asked; I was expected. Being the eldest meant protecting them, even if it meant becoming the “bad sister”, the one who scolded, set rules and sacrificed her own comfort. We become mini-adults from an early age, with responsibilities we never signed up for. Every action is monitored, every word weighed, creating a constant fear of failure.

Society romanticises the role of the eldest daughter. We are labelled the “perfect example” for the younger ones. But what even is “perfect”? Is it living up to expectations that demand we give up our childhood and wear maturity like a uniform? Or is it about embracing who we truly are, even if that means stumbling and appearing “immature”?

The role of the eldest daughter is often romanticised as strength and perfection. But behind that image is a story of pressure, unspoken struggles and a childhood that quietly slips away

I started to suppress my emotions. I couldn’t show I was hurting because people believed I was too strong to break. If only they could see the cracks in my heart. No one saw what I had to bury inside to cope. It teaches us to say “yes” when we want to say “no”, to please, to endure and to stay silent.

What’s most heartbreaking is how rarely anyone asks the eldest how she feels. People forget that we cry too, we break down, we get tired. But we learn to bottle it up because someone always has to hold things together, and that someone is usually us. There is often a storm beneath a calm surface, a weight disguised as strength.

And to all the eldest daughters out there: you are stronger than you’ve been told, softer than you’re allowed to be and more than the role you were handed. You don’t owe society perfection, you owe yourself peace.

Live the life you want. Don’t let others shape your path. It’s okay to say no. It’s okay to make mistakes. It’s okay to choose yourself. We may be the eldest, but we’re human too.

Published in Dawn, Young World, May 2nd, 2026