I don’t even know where to begin sometimes. Some days, it feels like life is just a list of duties, one after another, and I’m stuck in the middle, expected to hold everything together. I am the eldest daughter in a middle-class Indian family. That title carries weight not the kind you can see, but the kind that sits quietly on your shoulders and refuses to leave.

From as early as I can remember, I’ve understood my place. My parents had dreams, and I was supposed to be the carrier of them. My dreams? They were supposed to wait. My hobbies? They were supposed to wait. My happiness? That had to wait too. There was always someone or something more important: my younger siblings, family duties, household responsibilities.

Even now, as I write this, I hear my mother downstairs, humming, and my father talking to my younger brother about some cricket match. And I smile. Because that’s what I do. I smile, even when I feel like screaming inside.

I wake up every morning before everyone else. My day begins with preparing breakfast, packing my siblings’ things, checking that everyone is ready. And I do it without complaint. Because that’s what is expected. That’s my job. But sometimes, when I am alone, I allow myself to sigh….a deep, long sigh that carries all my exhaustion.

School is another stage. Teachers praise me for being “obedient” and “disciplined.” People call me patient, talented, and responsible. They don’t see the quiet struggle behind the smile. They don’t see the nights I spend hiding my tears, the moments I feel completely alone in a crowded home.

At school, I am careful. I do not shout. I do not rebel. I am gentle with everyone. I carry kindness like a shield, even when my heart feels raw. I notice things. I notice the weak, the shy, the lonely. I help quietly. I smile. I say kind words. But when it comes to me, no one asks. No one notices.

At home, my life is a series of restrictions. “Focus on your studies,” my parents remind me every day. “Talent and hobbies come later. You must prioritise responsibility.” I have dreams too…small ones. I want to ride my bicycle freely, explore my neighbourhood without worrying about time. I want to learn music or paint, or just sit under the trees and read. But those moments are few. Rare. And I steal them when no one is watching.

I remember yesterday. I rode my bicycle to the park, feeling the wind on my face. For a few minutes, I was free. No one’s expectations, no one’s eyes, no one’s whispers. Just me. And even then, I couldn’t fully let go. Because a voice in my head whispered, “You should be home. You should be helping. You should be responsible.” And I returned home, heart still racing, pretending nothing had happened.

I am the emotional support of my family, even though I am the weakest among us all in many ways. My parents rely on me to manage the household, to care for my younger siblings, and to remain calm when tempers flare. I absorb their anger, their stress, their frustration and I smile through it. My siblings complain, shout, fight, and I am there to comfort, to calm, to hold everything together. And no one ever asks how I am.

I have learned to hide my sadness. My tears live in secret. My smile is practiced. My laughter is gentle and quiet. I have learned to be delicate, soft-spoken, patient, and polite, even when I feel like my heart is breaking. I have learned to swallow my dreams and desires and postpone them indefinitely.

Sometimes I envy my younger siblings. They can scream, cry, and run without guilt. They can make mistakes and still be loved without conditions. And I… I must be perfect. I must not falter. I must not complain. I must always be gentle, always caring, always responsible.

I remember last week. My younger sister came home crying because she failed a test. My parents scolded her lightly, and I comforted her, wiped her tears, and whispered that it was okay. I hugged her until she calmed down. And after she left, I locked myself in my room and cried quietly into my pillow. No one knew. No one saw. Because I am not allowed to be weak in front of anyone.

Even my friendships are careful. I do not have a constant friend…someone who sees me fully. I have classmates, acquaintances, people I laugh with. But the one person I can be completely honest with is my diary. Here, I do not have to hide. Here, I am raw, real, and human. I write down my fears, my small victories, my frustrations, my secret joys. My diary is patient, never judging, never interrupting, never expecting.

There are moments when I feel invisible. When I speak, my voice seems to fade. When I act, it seems unnoticed. My contributions are taken for granted. I am expected to give without acknowledgment. And still… I give. Because that is who I am. That is my role.

I do not shout at my parents, even when their words hurt me. I do not complain about my siblings, even when their actions overwhelm me. I am gentle. I am polite. I am kind. I am patient. I have learned to be strong in quiet ways, to face problems even when I feel weak, to survive and continue without recognition.

Sometimes, I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about my life. I wonder if anyone will ever see me… If anyone will notice the girl behind the eldest daughter—the one who sacrifices endlessly, the one who holds everything together, the one who is gentle yet strong, delicate yet unbreakable.

I dream in silence. I imagine a world where I can pursue my talents freely, where I can laugh without guilt, where I can cry without hiding, where I can be angry without fear. But when I wake, reality returns. I must carry responsibilities, care for others, and remain invisible.

Even with all this, I have moments of joy. I steal small hours for myself…reading, cycling, writing, dreaming. I whisper to my diary about the things I love, about the person I want to become. Those moments are my rebellion… my quiet resistance… my secret happiness.

I am strong. But I am unseen. I am patient. But I am lonely. I am gentle. But I am burdened. I am delicate. But I am courageous. And still… they never see me.

Every day is a balancing act. I smile at breakfast, prepare lunches, and make sure everyone leaves the house on time. I study, do homework, help my siblings, manage small household tasks, all while hiding my exhaustion. I hold my tears, my fears, my frustrations deep inside. I do not shout. I do not complain. I am gentle. I am careful.

And at night… I write. I write down every hurt, every secret, every dream, every tear, every hidden smile. My diary is my only friend… my only witness… my only place to be entirely myself.

This is the life of an eldest daughter in a middle-class Indian family. A life of endless responsibilities, quiet sacrifices, hidden emotions, and invisible dreams. A life where love is given without expectation, but acknowledgment is rare. A life where patience is praised but individuality is stifled. A life where talent is encouraged only in the abstract, while duty is enforced in the immediate.

I am delicate, yet I am strong. I am gentle, yet I am brave. I am quiet, yet I carry a storm inside. I am patient, yet I crave freedom. I am invisible, yet I am present in every corner of my home.

And even with all this… I continue to smile… to care… to love… to support… to endure. Because that is what is expected of me. That is who I am. That is my role.

They never see this girl inside their eldest daughter.

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