I was not born. I was assigned. Handed a role before I could speak. Before I even knew what freedom meant.

First-born daughter. A title that sounds royal until you wear the crown. 

I am the blueprint, The test run, The one who made the mistakes so others could avoid them. The one who walked barefoot so the road would be smooth for my siblings.

I wasn’t raised, I was trained. Trained to carry weight without complaint. Trained to lead with silence. To swallow my voice like bitter medicine. Mistakes? Allowed once. Maybe.

And oh, bless my parents. They meant well, They loved hard. They flogged hard too. Most times, rightfully, Other times not. But who was I to explain?

 In an African home, Silence is obedience, And obedience is love. So I loved… By staying quiet.

I see my younger ones now. Their voices? Loud, Their freedom? Real, Their childhood? Soft, of course. And I smile, Because even if I didn’t get it, They do.

Maybe it's the generational shift? Or maybe…My parents just got tired. Got older, Got softer. And now, I’m the one raising them. Correcting them. Fighting for them. Protecting them. Standing in the gap like a shield made of duty and devotion. And when they mess up? Guess who gets the blame. Me.

But I do it all with ease, Because this is what I was made for. Wired for. Prepared for. This is muscle memory.

My dreams? Still alive. My ambitions? Still burning. But somehow, I have to carry theirs too. And I will. Not out of guilt or anger, But out of love.

This is not in a place of pain. It’s in a place of peace. The kind you earn when you stop asking “why me”, And start whispering, “It’s me…because it had to be.”

My mother handed me the chains she wore. Not out of cruelty, But out of inheritance. Because this is what she knew. What her mother knew. What I was taught to wear with grace.

And sometimes… I wish I wasn’t first. I wish one of my siblings had this role instead. But I love them too much to wish this weight on their shoulders.

So to every first-born daughter out there, I see you. I honor you. I cry with you. I stand with you.

And to those who couldn’t stay, Who ran from the title, Who folded under the pressure, Who chose freedom instead of responsibility, There is no judgment. Only understanding. Because I too… have dreamed of running.

So from one first-born daughter to another, I love you. And I pray your hands never grow too tired to catch your own joy even in the midst of your service

We are the daughters who were born carrying generations. And somehow… We still dance.