It Stops With Me: Healing What I Refuse to Pass Down
I grew up as the oldest daughter in my family. And if you’ve ever been the oldest daughter, you probably know what that means: responsibility, expectation, and pressure that feels heavier than anyone realizes.
My parents were stricter with me than they ever were with my brothers. I couldn’t get away with anything. Every mistake was magnified, every move criticized, every standard set impossibly high. Meanwhile, my brothers were handed freedoms, opportunities, and grace I never got.
And the hardest part? They don’t see it.
To this day, they talk about how great our childhood was, how “easy” we had it. But what they remember as freedom, I remember as fear. What they saw as love, I felt as control. They were given space to breathe, while I was left gasping under expectations I could never quite meet.
That’s trauma. And it’s real—even if no one else in my family wants to call it that.
The Moment I Saw Myself Doing the Same Thing
For a long time, I didn’t realize the weight I carried from my childhood was slipping into my motherhood.
But one day, I caught myself snapping at my oldest daughter over something small. I expected her to “know better,” to set an example for her siblings, to handle things that I wouldn’t dream of asking her sisters to do.
And it hit me like a punch in the chest.
I was holding her to the same impossible standard I had been crushed under.
I was repeating the cycle I swore I’d never repeat.
Not because I wanted to hurt her.
But because it was all I knew.
The Cycle of the Oldest Daughter
Oldest daughters are often asked to carry a weight they didn’t choose. We’re the “responsible ones,” the ones who get punished hardest, the ones who pave the way while everyone behind us gets an easier ride.
We learn to be small so others can shine.
We learn to stay quiet so others can speak.
We learn to carry burdens our siblings never even notice.
And if we’re not careful, we teach our own daughters the same lessons.
Choosing Different
That day, I made a promise to myself and to my daughter: it stops with me.
I will not hand her the chains I’ve been untangling for decades.
I will not let her believe her worth is measured in perfection.
I will not ask her to be a second mother when she deserves to just be a child.
I will not make her feel unseen, unheard, or less loved simply because she was born first.
Breaking the cycle means being honest about my own story. It means acknowledging the trauma my brothers don’t see. It means admitting that being the oldest daughter shaped me in ways I’m still healing from.
But it also means creating a new story for my girls.
The Work of Healing
Healing isn’t easy. It means catching myself when I slip into old patterns. It means apologizing to my daughter when I put too much on her shoulders. It means asking, “Am I treating her fairly? Am I giving her the same grace I give her sisters?”
It means parenting her the way I needed to be parented.
And it means forgiving myself for the moments I didn’t get it right.
The Legacy I Want to Leave
I can’t rewrite my own childhood.
I can’t make my brothers see what I went through.
But I can make sure my daughters grow up differently.
I want them to know love that doesn’t come with conditions.
I want them to know their voices matter.
I want them to know they don’t have to earn rest, grace, or acceptance.
I want my oldest daughter to know that being first doesn’t mean being forgotten.
Because it stops with me.
The cycle ends here.
And in its place, I’m building something better: not perfection, not pressure, but love that heals instead of wounds.