It wasn’t spoken outright, but it was in the way my mother’s-tired eyes looked to me for help before she even asked, in the way my father’s silence carried an unspoken expectation that I would always know what to do, in the way my brother was allowed to make mistakes I could never dream of making.
I grew up believing that love meant sacrifice, that to be good, I had to give everything without asking for anything in return. As a child, I didn’t know it was unfair, I just knew it was my role.
The responsibilities started small. “Help your brother with his homework,” my mother would say, or “Make sure your father’s tea is ready when he gets home.” It felt nice to be needed, to feel like I was contributing. But by the time I was 10, those small tasks had grown into something much bigger. I was no longer just helping; I was managing. Managing people, emotions, and problems that weren’t mine.
I remember once, when I was 13, my parents had a fight. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, but this time, it escalated to my father storming out of the house. My mother, holding back tears, turned to me, and said, “Go bring him back.” And I did. I went to the park where he always went to cool off, and I apologized—not for anything I had done, but for something I didn’t even understand. At 13, I was already playing the role of mediator, peacekeeper, and emotional caretaker.
This pattern didn’t stop as I grew older; it only intensified. In college, I was the friend who always showed up, no matter how tired or overwhelmed I was. In relationships, I bent over backward to accommodate my partners’ needs, often at the expense of my own. My ex once told me, “You’re so good at taking care of people, it’s like you don’t need anything yourself.” And for a long time, I believed him.
But deep down, I did need something—space, care, understanding. I just didn’t know how to ask for it.
By the time I hit my late twenties, the cracks in my carefully constructed façade began to show. I had a stable job, a steady pay check, and a family that proudly introduced me as “our eldest, the responsible one.” But I was exhausted in ways I couldn’t explain. I struggled with anxiety that kept me awake at night and depression that made it hard to get out of bed in the morning. I’d stare at my reflection, wondering when I’d stopped recognizing the person in the mirror.
One day, after another long argument with my parents about why I wasn’t married yet, I snapped. “Do you ever ask what I want? Do you even care?” The words felt foreign in my mouth, almost dangerous. My mother looked stunned. My father frowned. “We’ve done everything for you,” he said. “And now you’re blaming us?”
That moment shattered something inside me. It wasn’t just their reaction—it was the realization that they couldn’t see me beyond what I did for them. To them, I wasn’t a person with needs and desires. I was a role, a function, a solution.
That moment shattered something inside me. It wasn’t just their reaction—it was the realization that they couldn’t see me beyond what I did for them. To them, I wasn’t a person with needs and desires. I was a role, a function, a solution.
But healing wasn’t a straight path. My family didn’t understand why I was pulling back. My mother accused me of being selfish. My father’s disappointment became a permanent fixture in his tone. My brother, oblivious as ever, asked why I was “being difficult.”
There were days when I questioned myself, when I wondered if I was making a mistake. But there were also moments of clarity—moments when I felt a spark of joy I hadn’t felt in years.
Today, at 34, I’m still trying to find balance. I’m single, navigating a demanding career, and learning what it means to truly take care of myself. I’ve lost relationships, and my family still struggles to accept the version of me that dares to ask for her own needs. But for the first time, I’m starting to feel like I’m living my own life, not one shaped entirely by others’ expectations.
Being the elder daughter in an Indian family is a heavy, complicated role. It’s a life of giving and bending until you lose sight of where you end and others begin. It’s a role that teaches you resilience but often at the cost of your own happiness.
I don’t have all the answers, and maybe I never will. But I know this much: it’s okay to want more. It’s okay to be tired of being the rock, the caretaker, the one who always has it together. It’s okay to stumble, to struggle, and to say, “I need help.”
This isn’t a story with a happy ending. It’s not a story with an ending at all. It’s a story about learning to hold space for yourself in a world that often demands you shrink. It’s about learning that you can be strong without carrying everyone else’s weight. It’s about knowing that, even when the world doesn’t see you, you still matter. You always have.
