A STRANGER IN MY OWN LIFE

I don’t think people understand how much it matters where your story begins. Some people are born into warmth. Into laughter that fills rooms. Into parents who look at them like they are everything. I wasn’t. I came into a life that already had structure, already had history, already had expectations waiting for me. I didn’t start as something new. I started as something that had to fit into what already existed. To my mum, I was her first daughter. That should mean something special, right? The first experience, the first bond, the first of everything. But even that came with weight. Being the first doesn’t mean being free. It means being the one who has to get it right, even when nobody shows you how. To my dad, I was not the first. I was already second. And that small difference… it changes things more than people admit. It’s like arriving somewhere and realizing you’re not the beginning of the story. You’re continuing something you don’t fully understand. You don’t know what came before you, but somehow, it affects how you are seen. I grew up trying to read between lines nobody spoke out loud. There were things I noticed early, even as a child. The way attention shifts. The way expectations fall heavier on some shoulders than others. The way you can be present but still feel like you’re not fully seen. I didn’t have the words for it then. I just had the feeling. And the feeling stayed. Being the first daughter is not soft. People think it’s about love and pride, but they don’t talk about the responsibility that comes without warning. You are expected to understand before you are taught. To be strong before you are ready. To carry things you didn’t choose. Mistakes don’t feel small when you’re the first. They feel like failure. And slowly, without even realizing it, I started becoming careful. Careful with my words. Careful with my actions. Careful with how much of myself I showed. Because sometimes, it felt like there wasn’t space for me to just be. There’s a kind of loneliness that doesn’t come from being alone. It comes from being surrounded by people who don’t fully see you. From being part of a family but still feeling like you’re figuring everything out on your own. I didn’t hate my life. But I didn’t understand it either. And when you don’t understand something, your mind starts asking questions. Questions you don’t always have answers to. Why does it feel like I have to try harder? Why do I feel different? Why do I feel like I’m not enough… and at the same time, too much? I never asked those questions out loud. Because I didn’t know how. So I kept them inside. That’s how it started for me—not with something loud or dramatic, but with quiet confusion. The kind that grows slowly. The kind that follows you as you get older. The kind that turns into something heavier if you don’t understand it. And the truth is… I was already starting to feel that weight.