The Eldest Daughter Starter Pack

Throwback to the early 2000s at El Faro a Colón 🇩🇴 — just a girl standing with the people who shaped her. Eldest daughter energy in full effect, even then.

I’m the eldest daughter of three, raised in a Dominican household full of warmth, noise, food, and deeply rooted family values. My sister came just 15 months after me, and my brother about five years later. From the very beginning, I was “la mayor”—the big sister. And not just in name.

I’ve always been the helper. The one who stepped in, figured it out, got it done. I was praised for being “so mature,” “so responsible,” “so reliable.” And I was all of those things. I still am.

It was never officially assigned to me, but from an early age, I knew: being the eldest meant being the second set of hands, eyes, and ears for my parents. It meant watching over my siblings, walking them to and from school, helping with homework, drying tears, and calming fears. It meant being the one who kept it together—especially when things felt like they might fall apart.

And I did it with love. Still do.

Because the truth is, my parents were and are incredible. My mom stayed home with us at times, worked when she needed to, and was involved in every part of our lives. My dad worked hard—like, hard hard—to provide. He was the funny one, the protector, the dreamer. Together, they built something beautiful out of almost nothing. They gave us everything they had, even when it cost them everything they didn’t.

And yet… somewhere in all that sacrifice, I stepped into a role I never quite stepped out of.

I remember helping my brother feel safe at school, walking over from my own class lineup just to soothe him before his day began. I remember being left in the Dominican Republic with my grandparents when my parents immigrated to Boston—us kids were told it was just “hasta nuevo aviso,” until further notice. We didn’t know what that meant. Would it be six months? A year? Longer?

I was ten. My sister was nine. My brother was five.

And even as my heart ached from missing them, I knew I had a job to do. I took care of my siblings. Made pancakes. Got us all showered and dressed. Helped my grandma cook dinner. Watched over them like a second mom.

Looking back now, I see how much that little girl held.

When we finally joined our parents in Boston, I stepped into another role: family translator, paperwork assistant, navigator of the new. I learned English within months—not because I had to, but because we needed me to. I was reading documents, making phone calls, helping at the store, translating during doctor’s appointments, applying for schools.

When it came time for my parents to apply for citizenship, I filled out the forms and gathered every document. I advocated for my siblings when they wanted to go away for college. I helped my parents understand everything from warranties to college bills. And I did it all while juggling school, work, and my own dreams.

Because that’s what eldest daughters do. Especially in immigrant families.

We figure it out. We make it happen. We lead the way.

And honestly? I’m proud of all of that.

I’m grateful my parents trusted me, leaned on me, believed in me. Their love and sacrifice gave me a deep well of strength. We weren’t wealthy, but we were rich in so many other ways: in family, in food, in tradition, in grit.

But that doesn’t mean it was easy.

There were moments when my own birthday felt like an afterthought. When I was studying for finals, and someone needed help filling out forms. When I felt like I didn’t have the space to fall apart, because everyone else needed me to hold it together. When I realized people had come to rely on me so much, they forgot I might need help too.

It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just the role. And the role is… a lot.

Being the eldest daughter often means becoming your family’s anchor before you even know how to swim. It means putting your feelings aside because someone else’s needs feel more urgent. It means being the person everyone calls when something goes wrong—and the one they forget to check on when things go right.

It can show up later as anxiety. As people-pleasing. As perfectionism. As the feeling that rest is only something you earn—not something you deserve.

But it’s also shaped me in beautiful ways. It’s why I’m thoughtful, strong, empathetic, and resourceful. It’s why I can carry weight and still make room for joy. It’s why I care so deeply about others. It’s why I lead with heart.

To my parents, if you ever read this: thank you. You did the best you could with what you had. You loved us fiercely. You taught us resilience. You showed us how to be brave. And I hope you know that every extra role I played came from a place of love. I don’t resent you—I honor you. And I honor me, too.

To my fellow eldest daughters—and to anyone who’s ever carried more than your fair share:

It’s okay to be tired.

It’s okay to ask for help.

It’s okay to say, “I can’t do it all today.”

You can love your family and still feel overwhelmed.

You can be proud of your role and still want to set it down sometimes.

You can hold both.

So here’s to us—the oldest, the responsible, the ones who grew up before we were done growing.

May we keep leading, but also resting.

May we stay strong, but also soft.

May we be loved not just for what we do, but for who we are.

And may we know—deep down—that we are allowed to just be.

💜—Rochelly