An Open Letter to the Eldest Daughter

Girl, you've done enough. Go take a nap.

Sitting across from my eldest sister the other night I said, “Liz, you are the toughest man I know.” She laughed. I mean, it is funny. But I was serious. Sure, men shouldn’t be the barometer for toughness given that they don’t ever experience childbirth, carry the weight of everyone’s emotions, or do the invisible labor that literally makes the world function, but you get it.

And I don’t think I am alone in this. I am not the only younger sister who thinks her older sisters are an absolute force— I have two, but for this piece, I’m focusing on the eldest and all the nuances attached to such a role. Stay tuned for my next piece dedicated to second-born daughters, a.k.a. the rage-filled foot soldiers who loudly and unapologetically do their siblings’ bidding.

If you are the eldest daughter reading this, you deserve rest. For everyone else, send a thank you or an I love you to an eldest daughter, even if she isn’t your sister…because we all know they are the water that nourishes this world.

A Quick Note

I have known many eldest daughters— my own sister, my cousin, my aunt, grandmothers, friends, and co-workers. This is an open letter to them recounting my perception and the realities I have seen them endure, specifically my oldest sister. If this perspective/experience is different than your own, I ask you to consider it rather than dismiss it. We are all here just reflecting and figuring shit out— this is me reflecting and figuring shit out.

Painting by Sarah Elizabeth Felder

Dear Eldest Daughter,

To be the eldest, I can only imagine, means to grow up faster than you’d like. It means to sometimes parent your siblings rather than simply look out for them, to be simultaneously relied upon and overlooked, highly valued and under-nurtured, visible when others are struggling and invisible when you are. A regular ole’ Fiona Gallagher that shoulders entirely too much, or perhaps an Isabela Madrigal or Meg March whose perfectionism and righteousness work overtime so as not to burden others.

And I already know what you will say when I shout Thank You from the rooftops. You’ll say, “I wish I could have done more,” or “I wish I could do more.” To which the only appropriate response is, “Girl, sit down. You’ve done enough.” But of course, you won’t sit, you won’t rest, you won’t allow yourself a bit of peace until you know your family has it too. And this is a special breed of resilience and selflessness exclusive to you that likely feels like a blessing and a burden— something you are proud of but also need a break from.

I can only imagine how exhausted you are from…

…making all the mistakes so we can make less of them.

…having to be the responsible one so the rest of us don’t crumble.

…getting knocked down so we can stand stronger for longer.

…witnessing a million firsts so we can see seconds, thirds, fourths, and fifths.

…taking it on the chin so the blows are softer for whoever stands behind you.

…being in survival mode because everything happened to you first.

And nothing stops happening to you first. Your title isn’t suddenly retired once you become a free, independent woman at 18 (also, let’s face it, you were independent and a woman long before that arbitrary societal marker). You are the eldest forever, which means you will experience the mistakes, the blows, all the firsts in every phase of this life. You are the eldest whether you are 5, 25, 55, or 95— it’s a role you didn’t ask for yet still sank into because your love outweighs its pressures. That is why you continue to show up despite being haggard and tired— your love is thick just like your skin.

Truthfully, I will never know what it is like to be you. As a middle child, I have always watched from the center— from the fence I sit on, I have always looked forward, observing your lessons so I can put them in my backpack and carry them down to the younger ones.

I will never understand the depths of your experience, but from my fence, here in the middle, I see wisdom for miles. I see how big love can get. I see a standard for how we are meant to treat one another. I also see someone who has carried enough and deserves to be watered with the same tenderness she pours out.

I guess what I am trying to say is you are the rough draft and the blueprint. The protostar and the North Star. Whenever I am lost in this life, I look for your light and follow the dotted lines because I know it will guide me back to myself. And I understand now that, as an eldest daughter, you might not have someone like this for you. And sure, I can never be an eldest daughter to you, but I can be a better third daughter. A third daughter who holds space for your rage and your joy, who brings you coffee even though you didn’t ask for it, who listens without judgment, who will never define you by your bad days, and who is proud of every success and failure you carry with you.

You always say you are proud of me. I am not sure you realize that so much of who I am is because of you. So, when you say you are proud of me, you are also saying you are proud of yourself. As you should be. You are a force. You are the fricken bar.

Now, all that heavy shit you carry on behalf of everyone else? Go put it down and take a damn nap.

I love you,

Sam