sometimes, i wonder if being the eldest daughter means carrying an invisible weight that no one else can quite see. on the surface, everything looks fine. i go about my day, i do what’s expected, i try to be dependable. but underneath, there’s this quiet exhaustion, this ache that comes from always feeling like i have to hold myself together for everyone else.
i’ve spent so much of my life being careful. careful with my words, careful with my choices, careful with how i live. not because i’m naturally cautious, but because i feel like i can’t afford to slip. others have already pushed boundaries, made decisions that shook our family in one way or another. and in the middle of it all, i decided (without anyone really asking me to) that i couldn’t add to that. that i had to be the one who stayed safe, who didn’t stir up more worry, who didn’t give anyone another reason to shake their head.
but what happens when “being safe” starts to feel like living half a life? what happens when the things i want (not even reckless things, just simple human wants) start to feel like luxuries i can’t touch? it’s frustrating to silence myself before i even begin, to measure every possibility against what others might say or think. i’ve trained myself to put their peace of mind before my own, and it’s exhausting in a way i can’t always explain.
the hardest part is the quietness of it. there’s no big confrontation, no one standing over me saying “don’t do this.” it’s just me, carrying these unspoken expectations in my chest, telling myself to stay in line, to be the steady one, the reliable one, the one who won’t disappoint. and in that silence, i feel myself shrinking, like i’m folding away parts of who i am just to keep up an image that maybe no one even asked me to hold in the first place.
i am proud of the sacrifices i’ve made for my family. i love them, and i know they love me. but i can’t deny this part of me that is aching for freedom. freedom to breathe without guilt. freedom to make decisions without the constant fear of what everyone will say. freedom to live a little messy, a little imperfect, without feeling like i’ve failed some invisible test.
i don’t want to keep pausing my life just to prove that i am the “good one.” i don’t want to keep hiding behind the role of the panganay, as if that’s all i am allowed to be. i am human, too. i have dreams, flaws, desires, and i want to be brave enough to choose them without apology.
tonight, i let myself write this down because maybe the first step is admitting it to myself: i am tired. i am frustrated. i am longing for a life that feels like mine, not one that’s constantly measured against other people’s approval.
and maybe, just maybe, it’s okay if i stop being the perfect one, and start being real instead.
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