#eldestdaughter

I was the first to feel the weight, Of promises made and hands of fate. They poured their dreams into my skin, A tapestry of all they’d been.

Their hopes were stars I tried to reach, Yet each one brought its own new breach. They called me strong, but never knew, The nights I wore the darkest hue.

I held their worries, their silent fears, Wrapped them in smiles, swallowed the tears. I learned to be brave before my time, Stepping back when the bell would chime.

For every dream, I held my breath, Fearful of failure’s heavy depth. Would I meet the mark, would I be enough? Would they see me behind the tough?

The rules were strict, the lines so tight, A fragile girl beneath the fight. But being first meant leading through, When they stumbled, I had to too.

I made mistakes that cut like glass, Their echoes lingered, slow to pass. Yet they would say to those who came, "Be more like her"—and call my name.

So I bit my tongue and swallowed pride, Played the part of the constant guide. I walked the path no one had paved, A trail of doubts I’d never saved.

And when my sisters, brothers fell, I stood tall, a ringing bell. Silent strength they could rely, But oh, how many times I’d cry.

For sometimes I longed to just let go, To drift along where rivers flow. To be the child, to drop the shield, To lay down arms upon the field.

i was the eldest, i had to set a good example. I had to be good at school, at family events, at hobbies. i had to be talented and charming and be a shining example of how to behave. i had to look after you. i didnt want to. i wanted to run about and be annoying and be bad at things. but i had to be good. and then i liked being good at things. i became better, i became the best. then we grew up. they asked you why you werent as good as me. why arent you going to university like your sister, your sister got a job why havent you? your sister is far away where we cant reach her so we have to focus all of our attention on you two. and when i come home they love me so much more. i'm so sorry. i don't mean to be an event.

you don't blame me. thank you. i'm sorry for how they treat you, i'm sorry you can't come with me. i love sitting in the car when you drive and we talk about all the shit we endured, reminding each other of the traumas we forgot. you are me. you are what i could've been, and i the same for you. we get it. you will understand me more than anyone else. you are everything to me. come home. i miss you.

and there's the youngest, no one knows what to make of him. we love him, we try to help him, we don't know how. he hasn't been here as long as we have, but someday we will get it. you're ready to give up on him, i remember being there with you.

As 2025 comes to a close and 2026 slowly approaches, I feel a shift—even as I write this. Life feels different. I am in a season of becoming, and I want that evolution to show up boldly in 2026. I am growing into the woman my future daughter and my nieces can look up to with pride.

In 2025, I am leaving behind feelings of ridicule and alienation. I am releasing the version of myself still stuck in middle school—still questioning her worth, still shrinking to belong. I am letting go of the weight eldest daughters carry at every age. The voice that once told me I wasn’t good enough is finally being quieted. The version of me who thought she needed a circle is relearning how to stand firmly on her own.

Much of my twenties were spent as a secondary parent, yet in the same breath, my mother championed my pursuit of higher education—and for that, I am deeply grateful. I honor this season of reflection and cherish the semi-peace I have now, knowing it won’t always look like this once I choose differently. Gone is the girl embarrassed by how life unfolded. In her place stands a woman living inside an answered prayer.

Dear 2026,

I look forward to the woman I will evolve into over the next 365 days. 2025 carried immense heartache—from losing my Tiny to unexpectedly losing parts of my village. I’ve never known grief like this, but I trust that we will be okay. When it comes to family, I am learning that it’s okay to step back—my leadership does not have to hold everything together. In my work life, I can feel momentum building. I don’t seek power, but I know how to bend luck in my favor. Blessed and highly favored to many, but chosen by One. I see change coming—good change—and I am finally chasing the dreams I once only whispered about. The woman I envision when I close my eyes is beginning to take form.

When it comes to love—the part I hesitated to write—I think the moment might be circling back. Maybe the energy is calling again, and this time, I plan to answer. I’ve lived too long with one foot in and one foot out; I want to be all in now. The timing feels different. I don’t fully know what it means to be in love—I’ve spent most of my life flowing instead of choosing—but I want more. I want to dominate the spaces I occupy. I want to move with intention. I believe God is reminding me that this is part of my destiny—and that this time, it will work. (Or maybe I’m just in my head… we’ll see.)

My family is a lot—but they are mine. My last words to my Tiny were that I would take care of them, and while grief pulled me away for a while, I am finding my way back. What I love most is how deeply loved I am by them. My brother jokes about being the favorite—and maybe he is—but I’m the people’s champ. I was the underdog, and now I stand among the top. I look forward to one day marrying into a love they can pour into—healthily, intentionally, and in the right doses.

who never knew what it cost.

They called it micromanaging,

but they never saw the decades

of instinct carved into my bones.

The reflex to fix, to guide, to protect—

trained into me before I even knew

I deserved a childhood too.

I was drafted into responsibility,

not asked.

“Be the example.

Be the guide.

Be the one they look up to.”

They crowned me with duty

and called it love.

And I wore it.

I wore it until it blistered.

But the day I stepped in,

the day I did exactly what they taught me,

they turned around and said,

“You’re not their mother.

Stay out of it.

That’s not your place.”

Amazing, isn’t it—

how the same mouths

that pushed you into the role

will punish you for playing it.

I was told to raise them

but forbidden to have a say.

Told to lead

but told to stay small.

Told I was responsible

but never allowed to speak.

Eldest daughters live inside contradictions,

balancing fires no one else sees.

We are built from pressure,

tempered by expectation,

forged in the heat

of everyone else’s needs.

And still—

we don’t break.

We burn brighter.

Because everything they gave as duty,

we turned into strength.

Everything they called a burden,

we turned into backbone.

We learned to carry

what should never have been ours,

and somehow

For the last nine years, I’ve been working on what I had labeled a ‘self-help/memoire hybrid’. In the Spring of 2018, I titled it ‘Breaking Radio Silence’ in with the subtitle ‘Self-Help/Memoire Hybrid’. Deep down though, I felt like that didn’t fit as well as I wanted it to. Today, I have the subtitle that I feel fits this book perfectly: As Done by An Eldest Daughter. I was listening to the…

Shimmers that innocent light back