I Am Eldest Daughter Syndrome
I live inside the hearts of eldest daughters. I am the crippling blanket of self-doubt and anxiety. I am the pressure of a thousand little voices whispering, “You have to do better” and “They expect more” in the ear of all the eldest daughters. At the age of seven years old, she hears, “You’re so mature for your age”, “Oh, she’s so independent”, “She must be so easy, she barely needs anything.” She thinks that this is a blessing. She thinks that this is a crown of honor. Little does she know that this is where I started to grow my roots. At the age of ten, she is told that she is “gifted” and she’s reading at a level way above her age. This is where I thrive. We have to be better; we have to be more. More accomplishments, more praise. This is where I start growing over her inner child. Erasing the memories of being young. More responsibility— we can take it. At the age of eleven, she overhears her parents arguing about money. I whisper, “You have to make it better for them, don’t be a burden.” She starts asking for less and doing more. This is where I am most proud of her. She stops asking for field trip money, she stops saying when she needs new shoes, and she never asks for the pretty school supplies. You know the notebooks with flowers on the covers and the 32-count colored pencils? Because we don’t need them. We don’t need anything. I spend my free time sewing worries into every crevice in her brain. I tell her that her dad works too much, I tell her that her mom is too tired to make her dinner. I remind her that her brothers have projects due soon, it is her responsibility to make sure that they have everything done. At the age of fifteen, she gets her first job. I make sure to remind her not to buy nice things. She has to save, she has to be logical and responsible, she has to be better. Every day, I make sure she’s aware of her responsibilities. She cannot relax; we have things to do. At the age of seventeen, she is in her senior year of high school. This is where I make sure to apply the most pressure. Who are we if we are not accomplished? Who are we if we do not get into the best college? Who are we? Who are we? Who are we? She asks me. We are accomplished, I tell her, we are the best. As she walks across the stage of her graduation, I make sure she sees the chords and awards her peers are receiving. Why do we only have three when that girl has five? I ask her why she did not try as hard as them. It is now her first year of college, she is eighteen. She is now an adult. She is asked in her childhood education class to remember a time from her childhood when she had the most fun but she cannot remember. “Have we always been grown?” she asks me. I tell her yes. I tell her that childhoods are frivolous. I remind her of what is important: our accomplishments. She starts therapy this same year, her therapist tells her she has “control issues.” I tell her that she is responsible. Her therapist tells her she has anxiety, I tell her that worry is good. If she is not worried, she does not care enough. This therapist tries to undo my carefully woven art. How else will she be the best? She must be the best, the most responsible, the most independent. I am sure to remind her of this. Who is she without me? I am “eldest daughter syndrome” and she needs me.
Hailey Davis (she/her) is an artist and writer from Virginia. She is currently a senior obtaining her BA in Creative and Professional Writing with a minor in Communication at Virginia Wesleyan University. Hailey also co-runs the social media account for her school’s literary magazine The Fishbowl Review. She also enjoys drawing, baking, and aggressively consuming essays on Substack.