I've Struggled With Eldest Daughter Syndrome All My Life

It was the beginning of the new year and I had just moved into a new state for my youth service, a compulsory one-year program for all Nigerian graduates. This was the first time I was living alone in a new state. I would have an interaction, the third event in just a year, that would make me realize how much being the eldest daughter defined me.

The first was my final days in university as an undergraduate. Fear was my companion in that season, and for the first time, I vocally communicated to a friend how my worth was strongly tied to my grades. As a big sister, I'd been told that I was setting a standard for my siblings. The truth was if I didn't get those grades, I'd be sad because I worked hard; however, I felt shame in anticipation because I had probably fallen short of the expected standard.

The second was me falling terribly ill not long after my finals. I'd girlbossed so hard that I crashed completely, and was dependent on my family to help me. Accepting their help became hard for me, because I'd been conditioned to have them rely on me. 

The third was when two friends and I went to get groceries. I was buying the most things to get because I was new in town. My hands were heavy, and when my friend J asked if I needed help, I refused, only for him to say, “You're new, but I've noticed you have a problem with asking for help or letting people help.” He proceeded to help me, for which I was deeply grateful because my hands hurt. And that evening, walking to where we all lived, I finally acknowledged how much being the eldest daughter had affected me, and decided to fix its negative consequences.

I grew up having this sense of responsibility instilled in me, and I inevitably got exhausted.

Growing up, I learned that to be a first daughter is to be a second mother. It is to mother your younger siblings even as a child. It is to sacrifice your childhood to ensure that your siblings have their own childhood and are able to make mistakes, but to be so restricted that you can't do the same. To be a first daughter is to carry burdens you're not ready for but have no choice but to carry. 

As a young kid, I was called "Iya Keji,” which translated from my native Yoruba, means "Second mother.” This title came with responsibility, and honestly, I enjoyed being their sister. I was so protective that I would fight guys twice my size when they tried messing with my siblings. I lost sometimes, but at least nobody would say that my siblings were treated unfairly and I didn't speak up. 

I grew up having this sense of responsibility instilled in me, and down the line, I inevitably got exhausted, a feeling that I still have every now and then. My parents said things like “But what were you doing when your brother was making a mistake?”  "Couldn't you be more responsible for your siblings?" “Have you forgotten that this is the reason you're the big sister?” It wasn't just their reminders that fueled this exhaustion; it was also the fact that I didn't get to nurture my hobbies because I was making space for my siblings, or that I canceled previously scheduled engagements because of them.

Being from a low-income household means additional responsibility as the first child. I love earning money, but it comes with a lot of pressure, because being the first means I earn not just to support myself, but to support the family, at least to a certain extent. While I started earning as a teenager, it would take years before I had autonomy on spending my money because usually this money was channeled to my younger siblings. I was quite happy to support—the family had needs—but I hated the expectation, hated that I couldn't have desires without feeling like a bad daughter, and then I would hate the fact that I felt this way. 

Being a first daughter hasn't been the worst experience of my life. I love my younger siblings, even more now that we can explore past feelings as adults. Being a big sister has given me strength. Empathy, responsibility, organizational skills, project management have been integral to my professional life, and being a first daughter really brought these out in me. Over the years, despite being a shy kid who would rather stay hidden, I learned to show up, take up space, and lead. I hate seeing disorganization or clearly unqualified people leading and doing a terrible job. As a result, I've been bold enough to hold leadership roles, and I'm very good at it. 

Yet, it affects me sometimes, as people often refer to me simply by my titles, not my name. It's the same way my siblings call me “sister.” I wonder if people realize that behind these titles, there's a real person. Sometimes, I really want someone to simply sit and talk to me about casual stuff, and not about some task or expectation they have of me.

I'm still navigating how to set my boundaries before I become resentful. I'm learning to heal my inner child, and do the things I wish I got to do when I was younger. There's so much I'm unlearning, and I'm thankful for it. The process is still messy, but if there's one thing I've learned, it's to keep showing up.