I’m a First Born

The weight of expectation

The weight of expectation settled on my shoulders before I could even crawl. “The firstborn,” my grandmother would say, her eyes twinkling, “carries the weight of the family.” It wasn’t a burden, exactly, more like an invisible cloak. I was the pioneer, the trailblazer. My parents, bless their hearts, looked to me for everything – a precocious smile, a timely crawl, the first words.

A life under spotlight

Pressure, I suppose, is a relative term. I thrived on it. I learned to walk early, eager to explore the world they so carefully constructed for me. My vocabulary blossomed, fueled by endless rounds of “Where’s the doggy?” and “Look at the birdie!” I was a showpiece, a testament to their parenting prowess.

The cracks begins to show

But somewhere between mastering potty training and conquering the alphabet, the cracks began to show. My parents, exhausted by the relentless demands of parenthood, started to snap. My early successes, once celebrated, now felt like a constant, unspoken pressure. I felt the weight of their anxieties – their fears that I wouldn’t live up to the impossible standards they’d unwittingly set.

A new dawn

The arrival of my siblings offered a strange kind of relief. The spotlight softened, the pressure eased. I was no longer the sole focus of their attention. I could finally breathe, finally just be. I discovered the joy of sharing, of teaching, of being a guide to the younger ones.

Finding my own path

Being the firstborn wasn’t about being the best, I realized. It was about leading by example, about paving the way, not just for myself, but for those who came after. It was about finding my own path, not the one laid out for me. And that, I finally understood, was a freedom far greater than any expectation.