THE FIRST BORN WHO NEVER GOT TO BE A CHILD

She’s the one they called strong before she ever even understood what strength was.

The firstborn. The oldest. The fixer. The bridge between her parents' brokenness and her siblings' innocence. The one who was told, “You’re the example,” before she ever got to feel seen for herself.

They gave her responsibilities before they gave her permission to cry.

They handed her burdens wrapped in words like “You’re mature.”

They told her she was wise, but never asked if she was tired.

And she was.

She is.

Tired of being the one everyone leans on while her own knees shake silently under the weight.

Because being the firstborn daughter is not just a title it’s a lifelong contract. One that demands her to show up even when she’s breaking. One that says, “Hold the house together,” while her heart quietly falls apart.

She learned early how to protect her siblings from pain she couldn't even process herself.

She grew up soothing others while swallowing her own sobs into pillows.

She became everyone's emergency contact but never their first call when it came to love, joy, or softness.

They assume she’s okay.

They always do.

Because she smiles.

Because she gets things done.

Because she never complains out loud, at least.

But inside?

She’s screaming.

She’s asking God when it will be her turn.

When will someone look at her and see her not as a provider, a protector, a peacekeeper but as a person?

She dreams of taking off the cape.

Of not being the hero for once.

Of waking up without feeling like the world is already on her back before she’s even brushed her teeth.

She yearns yes, yearns just to be a child again.

Even if just for a day.

Even if just in a dream.

To wake up and not have to worry about rent, or groceries, or how to keep her little brother from growing up too fast like she did.

To cry and have someone hold her, not ask her what’s wrong like she’s being dramatic.

She wants to be held.

Not with duty.

With care.

With love that doesn’t need her to prove her worth first.

No one sees what it cost her to stay strong.

What it cost her to smile at her mother's depression.

What it cost her to protect her siblings from their father's absence.

What it cost her to pretend she was okay when her body was trembling under pressure.

She’s failed privately more times than people have ever thanked her publicly.

She’s been the light for everyone else while no one even noticed hers flickering.

She’s mastered the art of carrying it all.

And now?

She’s tired.

Not just physically spiritually.

But still… she wakes up.

She gets things done.

She shows up.

Because it’s all she’s ever known.

Because who would take care of them if she didn’t?

But here’s what the world forgets about the firstborn daughter:

She’s human.

She’s allowed to cry.

She’s allowed to say, “I can’t carry this today.”

She’s allowed to want joy, softness, quiet.

She’s allowed to not be the “strong one” all the time.

She doesn’t want a mansion.

She doesn’t want the world.

She just wants peace.

Unexplainable peace.

The kind where she doesn’t have to earn it.

The kind where no one expects her to fix anything.

The kind that wraps her up in warmth and says, “Rest. I’ve got you this time.”

She wants someone to remind her it’s okay to be tired.

That needing help doesn't make her weak.

That her tears don’t make her dramatic they make her real.

If you’re reading this and you are her,

Please know:

You’re not alone.

Your exhaustion is valid.

Your softness is sacred.

And you don’t have to hold it all anymore not forever, not alone.

You are not just the oldest.

You are not just “the strong one.”

You are worthy of being held, too.

And if you love someone like her

The firstborn daughter who never got to be a child

Don’t just thank her.

Carry her sometimes, too