I am a daughter. The eldest daughter.
I grew up in a house where the walls held secrets I’d never understand. The layers of hurt and misunderstandings that I was somehow part of but could never explain. I was more like a ghost passing through every corner of this house, neither fully seen nor understood. I am just existing, there.
I was expected to carry things I didn’t know how to hold. I’d be told, “You are the firstborn, your younger siblings will copy you,” which meant I had to make fewer mistakes. “Your brothers will follow your path,” meaning I had to be perfect, someone with a bright future, so my siblings would follow suit. “Grow up, be strong,” as though those words alone could make the world less painful.
I was just a kid. So I did what I was told. I became the person they needed. I got high scores. I received the best remarks at school. I became the class winner. All I was trying to do was for the sake of fulfilling their expectations.
I buried the parts of myself that felt too loud or too heavy. Part of me was afraid that if I showed what was inside, it would all fall apart.
So I just smiled when I was meant to, nodded at the right times, and even laughed on cue. I pushed myself to fit the image and slowly ignored the voice within that screamed I was losing myself along the way.
Somewhere deep down, I could feel myself slipping away, and no one would stop to catch me.
The truth is, I am not strong enough, or driven enough, or bold enough. I became a disappointment that no one says out loud but many could feel. I felt like every time those words and eyes pierced me, they come along with the question of, why aren’t you enough?
I don’t know. I really don’t have any idea of what to answer. I couldn’t find a way to explain that all this time, I’ve just been trying to solve everything under these expectations that if every time I failed — once again — I would lose a little more of myself.
I didn’t know how to let this voice of I am also scared of the person I’m becoming out.
I started to wonder if it was my fault for feeling this way, if somehow I was wrong for needing more. How could I explain that my heart was aching for something I couldn’t even name?
A warmth. A kind of acceptance that I’d only read about in books or seen in strangers’ smiles.
People saw my life from the outside and assumed I had it all together — a family that loved me and a place where I belonged. I once gathered the courage to share a piece of this with them, hoping they’d understand. The words were barely out of my mouth before they dismissed them.
That was the day I stopped trying to explain. I stopped hoping that they’d see the pain I carried. Instead, I hid it and placed it in the small and invisible corner in the back of my mind. Maybe if I hid it well enough, I could make it go away.
I don’t know if they will ever see me the way I wanted them to, if they will ever look past their expectations and see the person standing in front of them, scars and all. Maybe they never will.
And that’s the irony.
