I didn’t audition for this role. There was no casting call, no script, and no warning label that said 'emotional labour included, lifelong expectations apply.' I was born first. Somewhere between my first school bag and my first real responsibility, the role was handed to me quietly, like an heirloom no one asked if I wanted.

Being the eldest daughter isn’t a personality trait. It’s a position. A long‑term, unpaid responsibility disguised as maturity. You grow up faster than your age, learn to manage emotions before you’re allowed to fully feel your own, and get praised for being “strong” without ever being asked why you had to become that way.

In many families, especially across South Asian households but also globally, the eldest daughter becomes the emotional spine of the family. She becomes the one who understands, adjusts, mediates, and sacrifices. Not because she volunteers. Because someone has to, and everyone silently agrees it will be her.

Psychology has a name for this: parentification. It refers to children who take on adult emotional or practical roles too early. Studies consistently show that eldest daughters in such environments develop high emotional intelligence and empathy, but also elevated anxiety, suppressed anger, and burnout later in life. Families don’t call it that, though. They call it being responsible. Being sensible. Being a good girl.

The thing about this role is that it’s never announced. It seeps in gradually. You’re asked to look after your siblings for a few minutes that turn into years. You’re told to understand your parents’ stress before anyone understands yours. You learn to read moods, anticipate conflict, soften situations, and hold yourself together even when you’re falling apart inside.

Consider a real‑world example from India during the COVID‑19 lockdowns. Multiple global reports observed that adolescent girls, particularly eldest daughters, took on a disproportionate share of domestic work and caregiving. While siblings attended online classes uninterrupted, these girls cooked, cleaned, supervised homework, and cared for family members. Education continued for them only when everything else was done.

No one called it inequality. It was framed as helping the family.

Take another realistic case. A 23‑year‑old firstborn daughter from a middle‑class household becomes the emotional support system for her mother, the academic role model for her siblings, and the silent problem‑solver for financial stress. When she enters the workforce, she struggles with perfectionism and extreme guilt around rest. Feedback feels personal. Failure feels catastrophic. She has been trained, unknowingly, to believe that her value lies in how well she holds things together.

This pressure is not accidental. Cultural expectations often demand that eldest daughters set the standard. Their achievements are meant to uplift the family’s status. Their mistakes feel collective. Their choices are scrutinised more heavily. Independence is encouraged only when it benefits others.

Over time, this shapes adulthood in quiet but powerful ways. Eldest daughters often become hyper‑independent. They struggle to ask for help because they were never allowed to need it. They over‑function in relationships, becoming caregivers rather than equals. Being cared for feels unfamiliar, sometimes even uncomfortable.

Love becomes something to earn through usefulness.
There is also grief in this realisation. Grief for the childhood that was shortened. For the softness that was postponed. For the version of yourself that might have existed if you were allowed to be messy, unsure, or simply held by someone else’s strength.

Yet, despite everything, eldest daughters show up. They remain loyal. They hold families together through emotional intelligence that was forged, not chosen. They build invisible systems that others rely on without noticing.

But resilience does not mean the cost was fair.
Healing, for many eldest daughters, begins with unlearning. Unlearning the belief that rest must be justified. That boundaries are disrespectful. That saying no is selfish. That love must be earned through sacrifice.

Therapists who work with family systems emphasise a crucial truth: you are allowed to be loved without being useful. For many eldest daughters, this idea feels almost forbidden. But it is necessary.

You did not audition for this role. You are allowed to step out of it.
You were never meant to carry everyone. You were meant to live, too.

.    .    .

Reference:

• American Psychological Association – research on parentification, emotional labour, and eldest children UNICEF – reports on gendered caregiving roles during COVID‑19 Pew Research Centre – studies on family dynamics, birth order, and gender roles Journal of Family Psychology – research on firstborn daughters and long‑term stress outcomes