Behind every smile and every responsibility lies the untold story of the eldest daughter – caught between the weight of legacy and the yearning for a life that’s truly her own.
There is a unique and solemn kind of heaviness that comes with being the eldest daughter in a South Asian household. It’s an invisible weight that cements on our shoulders before we are old enough to even begin to understand it. There are puppet strings tied to us, passed down from generations, wrapped in expectations and responsibility, leading and directing us in ways that we often don’t wish for. We learn early on that love is not always soft; sometimes it is duty in disguise.
We come into this world as children, but we do not get the luxury of remaining as such for very long. There is always something to be done. Translate medical forms at the doctor’s office, reiterate the political tensions shown in the news, lead your siblings, and learn to adapt your dreams according to your family. When our mothers are too tired, we become her hands. When our fathers are too quiet, we become his voice. We are the bridge between two worlds – balancing the traditions of the past and the uncertainties of the present. No one ever truly sits us down to explain this role or ours, yet we absorb all the lessons anyways. We must be kind, but not too outspoken. We should be independent and self-standing, but never at the expense of the family. We need to excel academically because our success is not only our own, but a reflection of the blood, sweat, and tears of our ancestors.
We are asked to be everything, because we truly are everything to our families, which both brightens and sometimes burdens us. We not only want to give back, but we also need to, and this can create such beautifully frustrating storms within us. We want to return the love and the strength, but beneath all the armour and all the effort, there’s a girl who is simply tired. Tired of carrying the unspoken pressures that feel nearly impossible to navigate. Tired of the emotional labour that is constantly expected but rarely acknowledged. Tired of wanting more but fearing that desire itself is a betrayal. Who do we turn to when we are the ones everyone else depends on? In the midst of it all, there are sweet and silent moments of rebellion; when we’re driving home in the beautiful solitude of our minds, we dream about a life that is fully our own. We try to stop ourselves, but we do wonder: what would it feel like to be free of this weight? To live a life where we aren’t responsible for holding everything together? To live and just be.
For us daughters in university, the balancing act becomes a million times more precarious. While working to preserve our ambition we still need to tend to the fires of our families. We switch between writing essays and mediating family disputes with such ease, always one thing to the next. Independence is dangled before us like a promise that is never truly fully fulfilled, as true freedom feels so out of reach when we have so many others we need to lift up first. And once we step foot out of our homes, we are engulfed with guilt. Why? Because freedom is complicated and not two-dimensional when you wholeheartedly love the people who bind you. No one tells us how to untangle ourselves from the responsibility without unraveling the ties that hold our family close. We ache to be understood – not just as the reliable eldest daughter, but as someone who is allowed to want, need, and break down without shame.
And yet, there is beauty in this role too. We know that the strength we carry is a legacy, built on the backs of women who had no choice but to endure. There is a fierce kind of love in being the one who holds everything together, even when it feels like too much. Still, we deserve to just be. To know that our worth isn’t measured by how much we carry without complaint. We deserve softness without guilt, rest without justification, and joy without apology.
And maybe, just maybe, the heaviest burdens are not ours to hold alone.