Being the first born, the first child, the first daughter, the first grandchild on both sides, is a role no one warns you about.

You don’t apply for it, you don’t audition, and you definitely don’t get training.

Believe me.

However, from the moment you arrive, the world quietly hands you a standard to uphold, a bar to meet, a story you’re expected to embody.

Be the example.

Get the grades.

Make the family proud.

Set the tone for everyone who comes after you.

For a long time, I tried.

I pushed myself to excel, to stay “on track,” to meet every unspoken expectation with a smile. I thought being the eldest meant perfection, polish, and proof.

The proof that I was worthy, capable, impressive enough to justify the hopes everyone had placed on me.

But life had other plans.

When the Pressure Cracks

During A-levels, the pressure stopped being something I could carry quietly. It became something that broke me open.

I crumbled under the weight of expectation; not because I wasn’t smart, but because I was exhausted.

I failed my A-levels, and suddenly the perfectly straight path I’d held onto disappeared.

In a rush to save face, I scrambled: a foundation year, then an access course, then a new degree. And for a moment, it looked like I’d fixed it. I was close to the finish line, close to proving I could do what eldest daughters are “supposed” to do.

Then, with less than six months until graduation, I was removed from my course.

Everything I’d been holding together fell apart in my hands.

The Fall, the Shame, and the Silence Around Eldest Daughters

Failure hits differently when you’re the eldest daughter.

It isn’t just your own disappointment you’re dealing with…

…it’s everyone else’s.

People I once respected came to my house to tell me how disappointed they were in me, as if I wasn’t already at my lowest. I was even told to “just admit you let your grades slip because you met a guy,” as if my entire life falling apart could be reduced to some teenage distraction.

But the truth was simpler and far more uncomfortable:

That degree wasn’t my calling. It wasn’t aligned with who I was or who I wanted to be.

And sometimes, when God wants something different for you, He pivots you so fast your head spins.

It took a year and a half of sitting in the ruins, therapy, prayers, silence, grief, to finally admit the truth: I had never chosen myself. I had only ever chosen the version of me others wanted to see.

The Eldest Daughter Doesn’t Get Grace

One thing I’ve learned (painfully, beautifully) is that eldest daughters rarely get grace.

Whatever we do is watched, compared, analysed. People look at you not to understand but to measure.

There’s always a whisper of How will she carry this?

Where will she slip?

What will this say about the rest of us?

And when you falter, the whole family feels entitled to your downfall.

But the day I stopped caring,like truly, deeply stopped caring, was the day the weight of expectation slipped off my shoulders.

It didn’t fall gently; it crashed. And underneath it, I found something I didn’t expect:

Space. Breath. Self.

Choosing Me, Not Perfection

I am still figuring my life out.

I am still building, still wandering, still becoming.

But for the first time,

I am not trying to impress anyone.

I am not trying to be the trophy daughter, the measuring stick, the benchmark for every cousin or sibling after me.

I am not a symbol.

I am not a standard.

I am not the story other people want me to tell.

I’m me. And that is finally enough.

If this resonated with you, you might like The Friend Who Always Showed Up and Reading, Writing and Reclaiming Time.

See you in the next one!

– Bibi x

– Bibi x