The Pain of the Eldest Child
“Do you ever feel like you’re drowning under the weight of everyone’s expectations?” I once asked my friend. She looked at me, a mix of surprise and recognition in her eyes, and said, “Yes, but I thought I was the only one.” This is the silent struggle of the eldest child, the one who is expected to be perfect, to lead by example, and to always have their act together. It’s a burden that’s as heavy as it is invisible.
From a young age, I learned that being the eldest meant more than just being the firstborn. It meant being a role model, a caretaker, and often, a second parent. ‘You’re the oldest, you should know better,’ was a phrase that became a constant refrain in my life. The pressure to be perfect was unrelenting, and the fear of letting anyone down was a constant shadow.
While my younger siblings played and enjoyed their carefree days, I was often tasked with responsibilities beyond my years. Helping with homework, taking care of household chores, and mediating sibling disputes became second nature. My own childhood felt like it was slipping away, piece by piece, each time I had to step up and be the responsible one. The innocence and freedom that should have been mine were often sacrificed at the altar of duty.
There’s a unique kind of loneliness that comes with being the eldest. It’s the loneliness of always being the one to give, without expecting anything in return. I gave my time, my energy, and sometimes, my dreams. ‘You’re so responsible,’ they’d say, not realizing how much that responsibility weighed on me. The burden of expectations wrapped itself around me, tightening with each passing day.
The pain of the eldest child is often silent and unseen. We’re the ones who are expected to keep it together, to be the pillar of strength for everyone else. But who is there for us when we crumble? Who holds us when we break? The world doesn’t see our tears, our exhaustion, or our silent cries for help. We are the unsung heroes of the family, bearing the weight of everyone’s needs while our own go unnoticed.
Growing up, I often felt like my achievements were never enough. No matter how hard I tried, there was always more expected of me. ‘You’re the eldest, you should set a good example,’ they’d say. But what if I just wanted to be a child, too? What if I wanted to make mistakes without the fear of letting everyone down? The pressure to be perfect was suffocating, leaving little room for my own growth and happiness.
The constant need to be perfect took its toll. I became my harshest critic, always pushing myself to be better, to do more, to be the perfect eldest child. But in the process, I lost sight of who I really was. I was so busy meeting everyone’s expectations that I forgot to figure out my own dreams and desires. The essence of who I was became buried under the layers of responsibility and obligation.
There were moments when I envied my younger siblings. Their freedom, their carefree attitude, their ability to live without the burden of expectations—it was something I longed for but could never have. ‘You’re so lucky,’ I’d think, but I’d never voice those thoughts aloud. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful or weak, even though the weight of my responsibilities often felt unbearable.
Despite the pain, there’s a fierce love that the eldest child holds for their family. It’s a love that drives us to keep going, to keep giving, even when it hurts. It’s a love that makes us want to protect our siblings from the same burdens we carry. ‘I do it for them,’ I’d remind myself, even on the toughest days. Love became both my strength and my burden.
But there comes a point when the pain becomes too much to bear. When the weight of everyone’s expectations crushes us, and we find ourselves lost and broken. It’s in those moments that we need someone to see us, to understand the silent struggle we’ve been enduring all along. The pain of carrying the world becomes too much, and the cracks begin to show.
The pain of the eldest child is not just about the responsibilities and the expectations. It’s about the emotional toll it takes on us. The constant need to be strong, to never show weakness, to always be there for others—it’s exhausting. And sometimes, it feels like it’s too much to handle. The facade of strength becomes a prison, trapping us in our own silence.
In the quiet of the night, when everyone else is asleep, the eldest child lies awake, burdened by thoughts and worries. We think about the future, about the what-ifs and the maybes. We worry about our siblings, about our parents, about everything and everyone. And in those moments, the weight of it all feels overwhelming.
There’s a longing for someone to see us, to really see us. Not just as the responsible one, but as a person with their own dreams, fears, and desires. We want someone to ask us how we’re doing, to listen without judgment, to offer a shoulder to lean on. We need someone to remind us that it’s okay to not have everything figured out, that it’s okay to be vulnerable.
The pain of the eldest child leaves an indelible mark on our hearts. It’s a pain that shapes us, but it’s also a pain that teaches us about love, sacrifice, and resilience. It teaches us that we are capable of more than we ever imagined, that we can handle whatever life throws our way.
It’s about finding peace with our role. It’s about accepting that we can’t always be perfect, that we can’t always meet everyone’s expectations. It’s about being kind to ourselves, about acknowledging our own needs and desires. It’s about finding a balance between giving and receiving, between responsibility and freedom.
So to all the eldest children out there, know that you are not alone. Your struggles are valid, your pain is real, and your strength is incredible. You are more than the weight you carry, more than the expectations placed upon you. You are resilient, you are strong, and you are enough. Embrace your journey, and know that you are loved and appreciated, just as you are.
