Oldest Daughter Syndrome

 I didn’t ask to be the blueprint,

the test run,

the example,

the one held to a standard no one else signed up for.

I’m the oldest daughter.

Which means I’m expected to

carry responsibility like skin —

always on me,

even when it stings

even when it bleeds.

I don’t get asked,

“How are you, really?”

I get instructions,

errands,

silent expectations.

Even when my sisters are right there.

Even when I’m falling apart inside.

Even when I’m grown.

Because my adulthood,

apparently,

is just a longer leash.

I’m not allowed to feel

unless it’s what they want me to feel.

Joy, when they’re joyful.

Calm, when they need peace.

Gratitude — always.

Even when my needs

go unmet

and my feelings are called

"drama" or

"disrespect."

A while ago, I shut down —

quietly,

gently.

I wasn’t angry.

I was just… empty.

Trying to breathe without explaining myself.

They called a family meeting

like I was a broken appliance.

When I said “I’m okay,”

they called me a liar.

And when I tried to open up,

to reach out like they say I never do,

I got called heartless.

Unfeeling.

Cut-off-worthy.

By the one person

I used to think saw me best.

So I learned to fake it.

Put on my brightest “good morning”

even when I was shattered.

Smiled at dinner.

Laughed on cue.

Made sure my silence was soft enough

not to offend.

It’s been almost two years,

and I’m still pretending.

Still walking on emotional eggshells

in my own home.

I want empathy.

Not pity.

I want to be heard

before I’m fixed.

I want someone to say,

“You don’t always have to be strong.”

“I see how much you’re trying.”

“You matter, too.”

I want my achievements

to be more than side notes.

I want space to feel

without a cross-examination.

Because I am the oldest daughter —

not a robot,

not a soldier,

not a fallback plan.

Just a girl

who’s been too strong

for too long

without anyone ever asking

if she wanted to be.

             🫩😴😶‍🌫️