Being the oldest daughter really sucks.
I have a younger brother (19) and sister (15) and I think the absolute world of them. They’ve been my best friends since day one. Throughout our childhood, I remember hearing person after person marvel and tell my mother they just couldn’t believe how well we all got along. We never fought, hit each other, or even slammed the door in each other’s faces. We’re best friends.
Being their big sister has always been a huge part of my identity. I remember the pride that would spread through my chest when an aunt or uncle told me what a good big sister I was when I was little.
The first time my sister performed in my dance recital was one of the best days of my life. I showed her around backstage, I showed her where she would keep her tap shoes so she could change between dances. I taught her the difference between stage right and stage left. My senior year of high school, I played the Queen of Hearts in our production of Alice in Wonderland, and my sister was a card soldier. Getting to dance alongside her was such a meaningful, full-circle moment for me.
My brother is the reason I have found one of the biggest passions of my life. He loved LEGO growing up, and so when he wanted to join a LEGO robotics team, my parents made me do it with him. Through that program—called FIRST—I found not only a way to connect with my brother, but a deep community that has shaped my entire life going forward. He is the best teammate I’ve ever had.
My siblings will tell you that their positions in the family hierarchy are the worst ones. My sister, especially, thinks that being the youngest is hard because she has to do everything last after watching her older siblings do it. And I most certainly sympathize with that—I remember being little and watching my older cousins get to do things that I wanted so desperately to do with them.
But personally, I feel that there is a very unique shade of pain and trauma that comes from being the oldest sibling.
First of all, there’s the subtle injustices that can drive a person crazy, if you let it. While you may get to do things “first” it’s only because you reach a benchmark first. I got an iPad when I turned eleven, and my sister got one when she was seven. Chronologically in time, I got mine first, but she got one way earlier, relatively speaking. I couldn’t stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve until I was ten. Both my brother and sister got to stay up until midnight the next year, when I was eleven and they were eight and five. It makes you think about what the word “first” means.
But even more so, there’s another part of being the oldest sibling that shapes the way you interact with the world. While it may never be explicitly stated in a conversation, even in a joking way, there’s always the thought gnawing in the back of your mind that you’re the guinea pig. The test child.
The mistakes that are made with college visits on the first child are corrected for the second. Strict curfews instated the first time around are loosened for each sibling going forward. One child isn’t allowed to drive until they’re 18 and next thing you know, your 15-year-old sibling is studying for her permit test.
When all of these add up– the strict rules, the test-drives, the younger siblings getting to do new things before you were allowed to– it is hard not to feel like you’re not trusted by your family.
When the transition to college or the next stage of life is made, it’s hard not to feel lost. It’s hard to set boundaries, it’s hard to not come running every time they express that they need something that you can’t give them. It’s hard to break out of the idea that it’s your responsibility to maintain peace.
When I was little, and my sister could barely walk, I remember going to the zoo. My dad and my brother always walked ahead because my brother liked to run. And my mom and my sister would walk slowly behind, my sister toddling along. And I would always make sure I was directly in the middle, being the connecting piece. I felt like as the oldest, it was my responsibility to pull everybody together. I would think of it, even at such a young age, like both sets of people were a train car and I was the piece connecting them.
They call it "eldest daughter syndrome." This more or less universal-- to some level-- experience of holding too much responsibility at too young of an age.
Words can’t fully capture the infinite and unique pressure and anxiety that’s laced into being the oldest daughter. It shapes every area of your life, some ways indescribably beautiful and some heartbreakingly unbearable. It’s true that I don’t have the lived experience of being the youngest, so if I did, maybe my song would change. But I feel like the trauma, anxiety, and self-doubt that can sneak in, regardless of how well or lovingly your family dynamic may be.