being first ruined me
For the oldest daughters: you hold so much more weight than you deserve to. I am sorry
“You are so mature for your age,” they’d comment.
I’d take it in as a compliment with beaming pride. Because I was mature for my age. I was calm, wiser than my years, “an old soul”, quiet, and polite. I fit in with the adults. But maybe that’s because I was never really a child, at least not for as long as I should have been. I grew up far too quickly and far too young. Shaped into an adult long before my peers.
“We never have to worry about you,” my mother would smile.
That’s because they didn’t. I could handle everything by myself. I did handle everything by myself. I cared for everyone. Reached for the highest goals no matter how much I was drowing trying to hold them all. I was the independent, responsible, highly-intelligent, and driven oldest daughter, first granddaughter, first niece, first at and in everything, placed on a pedestal so tall that one slip would cause me to plummet to my demise.
If you’ve been on tiktok recently, chances are you have seen the “they both reached for the gun” trend. In a way, it explains life as an oldest sister. On one side, its parents, and on the other side, the child version of the oldest daughter. Both side reaching for the adult version of the daughter (the gun), shaping and molding her into what they want the future to hold.
I guess I should thank that analogy for everything I have achieved and become. Being pushed to be great and dreaming bigger than the night sky of all I could achieve. Being the oldest meant so much for me, set my standards high, made me into who I am. It was great—I was great—until it became everything I was.
I have always known I grew into adulthood before I even reached puberty, but I think it came long before that. I was three when my sister was born and with it began the example setting and “be nice because you’re older”. Obviously, I didn’t realize it at the time, but that’s when I became the third parent. The one who felt as long as she did everything right, it’d be fine. The little girl who made her siblings’ lunches, who helped with homework, who wanted to be grown up. The little girl who learned not to cry but instead to tough it out. It paid off when she was twelve watching a marriage break and saw someone had to help hold up the weight. Someone had to hide it from young eyes and full hearts. Someone had to be the shield.
I think it’s the oldest daughters that feel it too deep in their chest while belting out Taylor Swift lyrics: “Cause I’m a real tough kid, I can handle my shit. They said babe you got to fake it until you make it and I did” and “You wouldn’t last an hour it the asylum where they raised me”. Because here’s the thing about being first: it’s lonely. You’re praised for your strength, but no one sees the cracks forming underneath. You carry the weight of everyone’s expectations, but no one ever asks how you’re holding up. You give and you give and you give. You have to be the best, because if you aren’t, everything falls apart. But when you’re the best, everyone expects that as the minimum and will take nothing less from you.
The minimum that brings a constant pressure to be perfect. To be the example. To be the one who never falters. To know it will never be good enough but keeps trying. The one who still keeps pushing forward despite sobbing alone, “I can’t do this anymore”.
That is the pedestal they place you on. The one you cannot slip from.
But I did slip.
And I fell until I became the ruined version of that shining little girl. Became the cold, arrogant, selfish sister who is angry and brash and never comes home. The one who can never accept help and squirms at the slightest affection. The one who has to choke out the words “I love you”, but loves so much and so deeply. The one who reads too much and no one understands how or why. The one too busy to call. The one who wants to run away just to escape from the expectations.
The pressure never goes away though, no matter how far you go. As an older sister, you realize that your title as first replaced part of you, the part that was carefree, that could make mistakes, that could simply be a child. You will always have to be the best. In all aspects of life, you have to be the best. And the second you aren’t the best, its paralyzing.
And if that’s not enough, you get the guilt too. The guilt of being a terrible sister because you were too busy being a mother. Teaching them to ride their bike and cutting their sandwiches just how they liked until you hated how easy they had it. The guilt of leaving them behind as you grow up because you needed to get out to breathe for the first time in years. The guilt of knowing they probably tell their friends “We were never really that close” when they mention you because you were an adult while they still got to be children. Their first friend. Their first bully. Their second mother.
And your mother. She was just a child too, still growing up while she raised you. You were her first. She was still learning. The older you get the more you empathize with how hard it was, especially when she was doing it mostly alone. And you understand how hard she tried and feel guilty for not being a better daughter.
Always guilty for not being more. For not being better. For not being first.
Even with the pressing guilt, I can’t help to feel a little resentment and sorrow. Being first ruined that little girl that I was. I’m heartbroken for her. She didn’t deserve to be thrust into adulthood. She didn’t deserve to be put on that towering pedestal. She didn’t deserve to only be praised for being the best. She should have never learned how to push it all down and plaster on a smile. She deserved unconditonal love. She deserved to have the little accomplishments celebrated, because sometimes they weren’t “no big deal”. She was just a child.
As for the woman that little girl grew into? I am so proud of how resilient she is. But I can’t help feel a little sad for her to. For the way she craves academic validation. Chases after goals only for the medal at the end. For the perfectionism that is unachieveable. The fear she holds of letting someone down. The way she is still learning to show love and be loved. The way she escapes to pages of books, letter of writing, planes to far away places—always on the run.
Being the first, the oldest daughter is a full-time job you can’t quit. I don’t blame my parents, they tried their very best and wanted the best for me. They wanted to be good parents. I don’t blame my siblings, there was more places to focus the pressure and attention. They may have had it easier, but I know being younger and in a constant shadow isn’t easy either. But by the time my siblings had grown a little, it was easier for my parents to let go. I had turned out fine, right?
As the oldest, we are probably our own worst enemy at times. We set ourselves to such high standards we can barely reach, make promises that we’d rather burnout over than fail to fulfil. Once a certain level of expectation and resposibility is placed on your shoulders, it’s hard to let that go. Deep down a part of my loves it and will never be able to let it go, no matter how much I resent what it robbed me of. Part of me loves the responsibilty, the control, the indpendence. Still beams at pride knowing they say, “If any one can figure it out, she can”. Whether it’s a good or bad thing, I’ll probably never know because I will never not be the oldest, the first, the one on the pedestal.
To my “The Bolter”, “Matilda”, and Nesta girls out there: this one is for you. You are seen and it’s okay to not always be perfect.
If you’re an older sister…
you deserve so much. So much love and appreciation. I am sorry. I am sorry if you related to this. You deserve better. It doesn’t all have to be alright. You don’t have to be sorry. You can cry. You can let it go. You can be proud of yourself. You can be angry. I see you. I understand you. And I love you just the way you are. Don’t be sorry for doing it on your own or running when you’re scared. You’ve carried so much for so long. I hope you achieve everything your heart desires and you receive the love you should have gotten so long ago.
If you know an older sister…
Tell her you’re proud of her. Know that she is meaner to herself than anyone else. Offer her help and know she may refuse because she has only known how to do it on her own. Know she carries the guilt of not always being kind and loving. Know she has fought herself all her life and would do anything just for a moment of not carrying the burden of being the oldest, but would also never wish that weight onto anyone else. Know she love you even if she doesn’t know how to express it. Make sure she knows that you love her too.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading this. The amount of times it has been scheduled, cancelled, and revised is embarassing. I suppose that’s the eldest daughter shining through and only fitting for this post though. I appreciate the time you took to get through this & appreciate any support.
I always used to wish I had an older sibling. It’s exhausting having to experience everything first and with no guidance, while younger siblings will be able to learn from our mistakes.
Reading this as the oldest daughter and child made me so emotional. It's so true that we are so hard on ourselves, that even our achievements and milestones feel like things we are "supposed to do" rather than moments that should be celebrated.