Beyond birth order: The unseen burdens of firstborns

As a small, slender, semi-broke firstborn daughter in my mother’s house, I am frustrated, exhausted, and constantly worried—about my siblings, my mother, and my future.

Every time payday comes, I sit down with my salary, do the calculations, and allocate my money before spending a single penny on myself. The numbers never seem to add up, and the guilt never fades. No matter how much I give, it never feels like enough.

I find myself trapped in a cycle of worrying, panicking, and feeling guilty for not providing more. Sometimes, when money lands in my account, instead of feeling relief, I feel anxious. What if my siblings find out I’ve been paid and didn’t contribute enough? What if my family is struggling while I have even a little to spare? These thoughts consume me.

As my mother’s only daughter, I have been a deputy parent to my siblings since we were young. We endured child abuse together at the hands of people my mother called relatives. I took on the role of protector, forced to grow up faster than I should have. At just seven years old, I was already playing the “bigger person” when all I wanted was to be a child who needed her mother.

For the longest time, I have prioritised my siblings’ lives over my own. The guilt that follows when I experience something alone—eating something special, discovering something new, or enjoying a moment without them—is suffocating. I used to think I was alone in this feeling, but when I spoke to other firstborn daughters, I realised that this is a shared burden.

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One friend told me that she is expected to give, give, and give—yet never take. When she has money, she’s everyone’s favourite. When she doesn’t, she becomes the enemy. She has even emptied her account for her family, only to be met with cruel words when she genuinely had nothing left to give.

Most firstborn daughters carry this weight. Personally, I still have my own school fees to pay. But I constantly tell myself that my siblings need certain things before I do. I have postponed major life decisions—including moving out into my own space—because I feel obligated to take care of them first. Yet, in reality, their lives will move forward with or without my sacrifices.

My best friend, another firstborn, has carried deep hurt over the years. Growing up, she had to beg for things her younger siblings now receive effortlessly. She only got a phone after finishing school, yet her siblings received theirs while still in school. She watches as her parents raise them with more care, attention, and privileges than she ever received. It stings.

We are expected to pay black tax—whether we have the money or not. The emotional toll is exhausting.

All we really want is love. A simple hug. A “thank you.” Someone to say, “I am proud of you.” Just a little appreciation now and then would mean the world to us.

Perhaps this is why we fall for the bare minimum in relationships—because we crave approval.

This is also why some of us firstborn daughters choose to be child-free. I dread the “I want to make you a mum” or “When will you have children?” conversation.

For the longest time, I have been nothing but a parent in a child’s body, forced into responsibility too soon. Before I start giving love, I just want to be loved first.

I know it sounds selfish, but I want to experience being a child first. I want to heal my inner child before bringing another into this world. I want to give my younger self everything she never got—care, patience, softness. I need time to take care of her.

Yes, I may get married, and yes, he may expect children. But right now, I just want more time for therapy and healing. Right now, all I want is for someone to love me, deeply and truly.

Am I asking for too much? Or am I simply a grown woman with a broken little girl inside, yearning to be loved?

We never asked to be firstborns, but that didn’t stop us from becoming the cushion for our parents’ frustrations. Their anger—whether from failed relationships or life’s hardships—landed on us. We took the beatings, the harsh words, the burdens.

We were just children. We didn’t ask for any of it. And now, as adults, the scars remain.

I celebrate all the firstborn daughters carrying invisible burdens. You are loved. You are appreciated. And you are doing an amazing job.