Playing pretend was never a game to me. It was a very serious opportunity for me to hone my directorial skills.
Whether it was just my sister and me, or some cousins or neighborhood kids were also in the mix, I took a take-charge approach to imaginative play and thought hard about how to take our skits and performances to the next level. From a young age, I was the casting director, stage manager, costume designer and performer all wrapped up into one. And while I must have enjoyed being the boss to a certain extent, what I remember more clearly is a feeling of stress about whether or not everything would go perfectly—a feeling that none of the other kids seemed to share. After all, they were having fun. But I clung to the idea that while they got to enjoy the experience, for me, this was a responsibility.
So costumes were sourced from the dress-up closet and sets were made from items laying around the house. I wrote scripts and cast roles and gave notes and, in the eyes of some, earned a reputation for being “bossy.”
I don’t play pretend anymore in quite the same way, but I still feel the pressure to take charge and make sure things go off without a hitch—just in new and more grown-up areas of life.
Why am I like this? Well, I think it has something to do with the fact that I’m a textbook eldest daughter.
I am not only an eldest daughter but also the daughter of an eldest daughter and the granddaughter of an eldest daughter. For the women in my family, this role is a kind of shared language. To add fuel to the fire, I’m also the eldest granddaughter and niece. The stereotypical firstborn traits of perfectionism, leadership, responsibility and people-pleasing are part of what makes me who I am. But, I wonder: Is that because they are ingrained somewhere deep in my bones, or because I’ve watched, learned and mimicked them?
“Eldest daughter syndrome” has become something of an online trend recently. It’s not a mental health diagnosis, but psychologists and family therapists have weighed in on the traits they use to identify and categorize firstborn daughters, including chronic worrying, people-pleasing behaviors and a type-A personality. And some of the traits have a dark underside—the kind that can cause some to experience feelings of resentment, overwhelm and burnout.
As The Atlantic so succinctly put it, “[w]omen are expected to be nurturers. Firstborns are expected to be exemplars. Being both is exhausting.”
But some experts caution against making too much of this phenomenon. Birth order research is generally pretty mixed. For one thing, it is difficult to conduct. Some studies have worked with small sample sizes, and others have only studied one point in time—before middle and youngest children might have the chance to mature and catch up to their older siblings. And larger-scale studies have not always found significant differences in birth order; ultimately, such small differences do not amount to very meaningful conclusions.
If the links between birth order and personality traits are relatively weak and difficult to pin down, why do so many people, and eldest daughters in particular, feel so validated by these narratives? Why does it feel almost uncomfortably familiar? What does this say about how people internally experience their particular roles as members of their families?
If being the eldest daughter does not necessarily cause you to be different, it definitely causes you to feel different.
And that feeling follows you when you leave the house you grew up in and head out on your own. In school, in the workplace and in relationships, eldest daughters report falling into the same kinds of roles they did in childhood and adolescence: high achievers, workhorses and caretakers.
I’m here to make a confession. This pattern in my life has become a kind of martyr complex. And that sense of martyrdom quickly grows into a feeling of superiority. I have been plagued by a toxic combination: selfless (or seemingly selfless) actions underrun by self-centered thoughts.
This project would never get done without me.
This get-together would fall apart without me.
Nobody else cares as much as me.
Nobody else is trying as hard as me.
Anyone else? Just me?
It’s this contradiction that many eldest daughters live with every day. They are taking care of others, often without recognition or appreciation. But when this work goes unacknowledged, feelings of resentment can fester.
Are eldest daughters doomed to lives colored by this specific kind of dissatisfaction? Or is there a better way?
Eldest Daughter Syndrome in the Gospels?
The Gospel writers do not specify the birth order of siblings Martha, Mary and Lazarus, but I have always read Martha as the eldest sister. At the very least, in Luke’s Gospel, she exemplifies the qualities that “eldest daughter syndrome” describes—and the ones with which I struggle.
When Jesus visits her village, Martha takes on the role of hostess. She is, as Luke says, “burdened with much serving,” while her sister Mary, instead of joining in her effort, stays parked in one spot: at the feet of Jesus. Eventually, Martha becomes exasperated and lets Jesus know it: “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me by myself to do the serving? Tell her to help me” (Lk 10:38).
On behalf of eldest daughters everywhere—and right to the Lord’s face—Martha voices our cry: I’m doing so much! Doesn’t anybody care?
I can imagine that she likely felt confident that Jesus would take her side. After all, she’s breaking her back to make sure everyone is happy and comfortable as Christ speaks to those gathered. Instead, Jesus’ response is blunt: “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her” (Lk 10:41-42).
The Gospel truth: Worrying, busying oneself and resenting others don’t make you better. In fact, they might mean you’re missing the point.
In Jesus’ eyes, presence is the point. The message to eldest daughters is hard to accept but important: Presence brings freedom. It is important to let go of the to-do lists and the pressures, but it’s even more essential to let go of the resentment and blame that sneak in behind hard work and perfectionism.
Don’t be a martyr for this cause. The choice is yours (and mine): You can let the burdens of eldest daughterhood define you, or you can sit at the feet of Christ, wherever he is in your midst, and truly acknowledge his presence over all these other things.
The Complex Beauty of Eldest Sisterhood
If I have a few great blessings from God in this life, my younger sister Nora sits at the top of the list. I’ll tell you a bit about her: She is whip-smart and famously witty. She has an eye for style and has picked out just about every nice outfit I’ve ever worn. Growing up, Nora treated her dolls like they were members of the family; those American Girls lived the good life. She is a young adult whose personality has sharper edges, but when you get to know her, you’ll discover that she still has that warm, childlike, empathetic heart. In our little family, everyone has a soft spot for Nora.
I relate to so many eldest daughter stereotypes, but resenting or being jealous of my sibling is impossible when my sibling is just so lovable. Despite my never-ending quest to be the role model a big sister should be, Nora has flipped the script and become a role model for me instead. Sometimes it seems like for every vice I have, Nora models its opposite virtue.
If I struggle to let go of my eldest daughterhood and sisterhood as a central identifying trait, it is not because I long to cling to resentment and drudgery; it is because my position is complex and beautiful. Its great role in making me who I am does not sit solely with me; instead, it lies in the relationships I have with my family members—and the love that exists, alive there in the space between us. It’s hard to let go of something that, even in its complexity, adds so much to your life.
Our families are our formation. The roles we play form habits that become characteristics, and those characteristics shape how we understand ourselves—at home and beyond. There’s complexity to every role, and our self-understanding ought to take on a similar level of complexity.
There is more to life than being defined by your birth order and gender. Eldest daughters: Stop the self-imposed martyrdom. When we are present instead of pressured, we can be free.
