The Eldest Core Might Be The Most Traumatic Core You’ve Ever Seen
They might’ve said you’re useless but no, you’re not.
Most of the time the eldest are the ones who need to keep in charge of their siblings after their parents.
You don’t want to know about those things but it’s been your responsibility to still get to know about it.
it’s always the eldest one who knows about everything but needs to keep it to themselves in order to not let other people’s feelings get hurt but then, who ever cares about the eldest’s feelings?
As the eldest daughter, I’ve learned early on the weight of unspoken expectations. To carry the invisible burden of “perfection,” a role cast upon me from birth. My every move is measured, every word scrutinized, and yet, the signs—the quiet pleas for acknowledgment, the invisible cracks forming beneath the surface—go unnoticed. It’s like living in a house made of glass where only I can hear the shattering.
What’s the point of leaving signs if they remain unseen? The straight A’s, the awards, the quiet sacrifices—they pile up, but in their eyes, the mountain is never high enough. Every achievement is met not with applause, but with another demand: “Do better. Be better.” And so, I climb further, my hands bloodied from grasping at invisible ladders, while my parents gaze upward, never downward, where I struggle.
I know deep down that I’ll never be enough—not because I don’t try, but because I know my own limits, the walls of my own capability. I know the places where I falter, the weaknesses I hide beneath layers of determination. Yet, I keep pushing. Not because I believe I’ll ever reach that unreachable standard they’ve set, but because I don’t know how to stop. I’m caught in a cycle where I stretch myself thin, knowing that no matter how hard I push, I’ll always come up short.
It’s a paradox, really. To be noticed for everything and yet for nothing at all. They see the results but not the effort, the outcome but never the cost. They measure success in accolades and milestones, blind to the sleepless nights, the silent tears, and the moments when I was on the verge of breaking but chose to keep going. I leave signs all around me—tired eyes, trembling hands, words unsaid—but they pass by, too busy charting a course for what I “should be”, never pausing to see what I already “am”.
“I will never be good enough for you, right?” No matter how high I climb, how much I sacrifice, it will never be enough to satisfy the ever-moving bar you set before me. Being the first daughter means I’m expected to be the blueprint, flawless, unbreakable. But I am not made of steel; I am flesh and bone, woven together with dreams and scars.
"Cause they see right through me
They see right through me
They see right through
Can you see right through me?
They see right through
They see right through me
I see right through me
I see right through me."
—The Archer by Taylor Swift
I’m not blind to my struggles. I know how hard I fight with myself, how often I question whether I can keep going. I know the weight of carrying not just my own expectations, but the expectations of those who have built their vision of "perfect" upon my shoulders. How long can I wear this armor that was never mine to begin with? How long before I collapse under the weight of expectations that were never meant to be mine alone?
What’s the point of giving signs if they’re destined to be invisible? It is the silence between words, the quiet after a storm, that reveals the most. But who is listening? And if no one listens, do the signs even exist?
And so I move forward, perfecting, pushing, giving—wondering if they will ever stop to see the signs scattered in the trail I leave behind. Wondering if they will ever notice that I am already enough, even when I know I may never be. Yet still, I try.
Yet, despite it all, I still hope. I hope that one day, my parents will finally see me, truly see me—not just the grades or the accolades, but the person behind it all. I hope they understand me the way I’ve longed to be understood. That they’ll realize I’ve always been enough, even when I was still trying to prove it.
Maybe one day, they'll see through the walls I’ve built and recognize the heart that’s always been here, trying, loving, hoping.
