I gave my best to people
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
still kept our heart alive.
