v.21 I Am Not the Eldest Daughter, But I Play One in Real Life
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the responsible one—not just for myself, but for everyone around me. As the youngest and only daughter in a family that often felt chaotic, I stepped into the role of caretaker way too early. Sure, I was caught up in the usual adolescent dramas—friendships, school fashion shows, and the occasional catastrophe over the “wrong” jeans—but beneath it all, I was quietly making sure my family was okay.
Not that anyone asked me to. I just knew it had to be done.
Even at 13, I remember thinking, One day, I’m going to have to take care of myself, so I better straighten up and fly right. (Yes, I actually wrote that in my journal. And yes, I’ve apparently always been a 47-year-old woman trapped in a child’s body. But I digress.)
At the time, the AIDS epidemic was still devastating communities, including many of our family friends. The #D.A.R.E. campaign was in full swing, but for a lot of people I knew and loved, it had come far too late. My family was struggling, and the world felt like it was spinning out of control. It was a heavy realization for a kid, but one that shaped everything that came next.
Fast forward 30+ years…
Recently, I had a reading with a brilliant astrologer who pulled The Emperor card and told me something that completely threw me: You can let yourself off the hook now. My first instinct was denial. What hook? But of course, I knew exactly what she meant. I’ve spent my entire life being the responsible one—the one on the hook, the one who gets things done, takes care of everyone, and breaks ancestral trauma. And maybe for the first time, I actually let myself hear it—I didn’t have to be this person. Oof. The instinct to carry it all—everyone’s emotions, everyone’s needs—still runs deep.
Looking back, I was never really a kid kid (as previously mentioned). I was a teenage adult. If you need photographic evidence, I’ve got it: pictures of me in high school (with straightened hair), decked out in a neckerchief, blazer, and/or four-inch heels—like an off-duty airline stewardess instead of the 17-year-old I actually was. Honestly, what teenager wears a damn neckerchief?! In the 90’s?! My friends wore sneakers and hoodies, and I was dressed like I was going to a fancy dinner with a much older date.
It wasn’t just a fashion choice; it was a reflection of how I saw myself. I had to be put together. I had to be capable. I had to be buttoned-up. I had to be someone. (My high school friends have been making fun of my style choices ever since. #truestory #welldeservedthough)
By 16, I was working two jobs. I got into my dream school in NYC—I applied for every internship I could get my hands on. DKNY. Liz Claiborne etc. While in undergrad full-time, I worked retail at Club Monaco and did fit modeling for a local designer on the side. I was always working, always earning, always proving that I could handle it. And by 25, young in my corporate fashion career, I’d done what I’d never envisioned: I was making more money than my entire family combined. It was a strange place to be, but I never questioned it—I just kept going, because that’s what I had always done.
When I was 28 and my father got sick, I was the one he confided in that he was dying. Because of course he did. I was the responsible one. And he was correct, by the way— he died a month later. Though my mother was always the main caregiver, after dad passed, I stepped in wherever I was needed. My mom never asked for help and felt deeply uncomfortable taking it. She had spent her life being self-sufficient, and I could tell that accepting support—especially from me, her baby—wasn’t easy for her. Still, I gave it freely, whether it was financial help, a day trip buddy or just being a steady presence. I loved my mama with my whole heart. I wanted to take care of her, even if she didn’t ask.
And then, in 2020, she died. I took care of her until the end. Our family went through it—grief, chaos, the unraveling that happens when the center of a family disappears. Without even realizing it, I took on another weight: the role of mini-mom to my grown-ass brothers. (Who, let’s be clear, I adore. And who, also let’s be clear, can absolutely take care of themselves.) But I felt this unspoken responsibility to hold things together, to keep us connected, to make sure everyone was okay. It was automatic. It was instinct. It was exhausting.
But now, for the first time, I’m asking myself: What if I don’t have to? What if I don’t need to be the one who holds everything together? What if my worth isn’t tied to how much I can carry? What if I can stop being The Emperor and carrying the weight of everyone else? These questions are uncomfortable because they are forcing me to rewire decades of conditioning. And. But. I’m starting to recognize that letting go—even just a little—isn’t the same as letting people down.
The Emperor card wasn’t a sign to abandon responsibility, nor was it a reason to stop being dependable or generous. It was simply inviting me to shift—away from shouldering and into sharing. Maybe I don’t have to be the glue holding everything together. Maybe I can trust that the people I love will be okay, even if I’m not always the one holding them up.
I don’t have all the answers, but I do know this: I am learning to set down the weight I have carried for so. very. long. And I’m realizing that I (probably) don’t have to pick it back up— even if my overachieving inner child is twitching at the thought of this.
Maybe you don’t have to, either. Maybe we can all learn that who we are without the weight is just as worthy, just as whole, and just as enough.
I’ve been prioritizing long, soul-filling conversations with the women I love. After 2020 turned me into a semi-professional hermit, this kind of connection feels weirdly… luxurious. Yesterday, I spent two hours on the phone with a girlfriend who’s basically my sister, and today, another marathon FaceTime with a sister-friend. Toss in a lunch date with a newer friend, and look at me—out here socializing like it’s 2019.
Consider this your reminder to reach out to someone who fills your cup—you might need it more than you realize.
That’s all for today. Thanks for reading Life, Created.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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