She Holds Everyone Together — But Who Holds Her?

A reflection on unseen strength and the quiet longing to be cared for

There’s a certain kind of stillness that settles into you when you grow up as the eldest daughter. Not silence, exactly — because your days are filled with doing, remembering, fixing, and showing up. But a stillness of spirit. Like you’re holding a house together from the inside, making sure the light stays on for everyone else.

You become dependable. Reliable. The “sorted one.” And without ever being told, you begin to believe that love is something you give — not something you receive.

You don’t ask for much. Not because you don’t want to, but because somewhere along the way, you stopped expecting. You learn to carry on with a kind of quiet grace, patching your own wounds while offering your shoulder to others.

I didn’t realize how deeply this had shaped me until something seemingly small happened.

I was on a casual call with my younger sister — just talking, laughing, and at one point, I mentioned I’d been eyeing some cute night suits online. I brushed it off quickly with a “maybe later” kind of thought, not intending for it to mean anything. I’ve gotten used to delaying little joys for myself — telling myself there’s a better time for them.

A few days later, a parcel arrived. It was the exact nightwear I had mentioned.

She had remembered. She had listened. And she cared enough to act on it — not for a birthday or a milestone, but just because.

I cried. Not the loud, dramatic kind. The quiet, aching kind that bubbles up when someone sees you — really sees you — after a long time of being the one who’s always looking out for others.

Because when you're the elder daughter, you grow into the role of caretaker so naturally, you forget what it’s like to be cared for. You start mothering everyone — your siblings, your parents, your friends. You become the emotional anchor, the fixer, the planner. And slowly, you fade into the background of your own life.

People assume you’re okay because you always are. They assume you don’t need help because you never ask for it. But beneath that strength lies a quiet longing: to be asked how you’re really doing. To be remembered in the small ways. To be loved not for what you do, but simply for who you are.

Being the elder daughter is not a burden — it is a role filled with immense love, patience, and power. But it can also be lonely. Not because others don’t love you, but because they forget that the strong one needs softness too.

So if there’s an elder daughter in your life — check on her. Not just when things fall apart, but in the in-between moments. Remember the things she says in passing. Surprise her. Hold space for her. Because sometimes, even the strongest walls need a place to lean.

And to every elder daughter reading this: You are not invisible. You are not forgotten. You deserve rest, tenderness, and to receive the kind of love you so freely give.