They say the eldest daughter is the backbone of the family. But no one tells you what happens when the spine begins to ache.
I was born a few minutes before the storm—the kind that shakes houses and hearts alike. Maybe that’s why I learned to hold things steady. The moment I could walk, I was already learning to carry: grocery bags, crying siblings, my mother’s exhaustion, my father’s silence. I grew into my strength before I even knew what it meant to have it.
When my siblings stumble, I am the cushion.
When my parents worry, I am calm.
When the world wavers, I am the anchor.
People call it maturity. Responsibility. Dependability. But sometimes, it feels more like invisibility.
Because no one sees the way I rehearse my smiles. No one hears the way my chest tightens when I can’t afford to fall apart. I have mastered the art of quiet endurance—of nodding even when I disagree, of saying “It’s fine” when it isn’t. I’ve become fluent in self-denial, a translator of everyone’s needs but my own.
And the cruelest part? The world mistakes endurance for ease.
My skin embedded the harsh truths that I am not ready to face—I became avoidant when things are in chaos, I learned to self-sabotage in a way for me to see that I am still alive and breathing despite all of this… I became the daughter my parents didn’t see coming. It is a kind of annihilation that devours my hopes and dreams.
The world did not know the whole truth of this burden. No one knew that I had buried myself six feet under the ground to give way for others, that I had killed myself a million times for them. The blood, sweat, and tears I have shed every night when silence embraces my aching body are locked away beneath a mask I wear.
No one dared to know that I’ve become their sacrificial lamb in conquering storms in the marrow so deep and dark.
They believe that becoming the eldest daughter was easy, charming, and admirable. However, not a single one of them thought that giving birth to the eldest daughter is like opening a wound that carries the hemorrhage in the part of ourselves we are yet to face—it is a silent bleeding disguise as appreciation.
They see the eldest daughter and think she’s built for burden, born with patience braided into her spine. They think responsibility was a choice, not an inheritance.
But I was not born to carry everyone’s storms. I just learned early that someone had to.
Sometimes I wonder who I would’ve been if I hadn’t spent so much time being everyone else’s safety net. Would I still flinch at the sound of “Can you help me?” Would I still feel guilty for wanting to rest? For once, I want to be held without earning it. To be seen not for how much I can endure, but for who I am beneath the endurance.
Because the eldest daughter is not invincible.
She is just someone who learned to smile under the weight of the world.
And maybe one day, she’ll finally learn how to put them down.
Written by Maria Selma and Trisha Jane Estoconing, Insight PH
Maria Selma and Trisha Jane Estoconing, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
