Eldest Daughter Voices: Theresa
The women of Lotus Magazine are no strangers to the impact of ‘Eldest Daughter Syndrome’ on AAPI families. In this piece, three staff writers and editors share their distinct perspectives, capturing the double-edged nature of being the eldest daughter in immigrant households. While each story is deeply personal, their experiences may resonate with you as well, sparking healing and helping you define boundaries that honor your own well-being.
Imagine being eight years old and learning that a baby brother is on the way. At first, the idea feels almost magical—no more solitude, a built-in companion, someone to laugh with and grow alongside. What you don’t yet realize is that this joy will come tethered to an unspoken shift: you will be asked to grow up sooner than expected. You will be entrusted with responsibilities that arrive quietly but persistently—teaching him lessons you once had to navigate alone, guiding him through a world you are still learning to understand yourself.
In reality, that promise of companionship gradually gives way to obligation. You find yourself babysitting, feeding him, picking him up from school, watching over him in ways that blur the line between sibling and caretaker. As the eldest, you become something more than a sister—you become a stand-in parent, a steady presence where guidance is assumed rather than chosen.
This role was never one I consciously accepted, yet it reflects a broader expectation often placed on eldest children in many Asian households. Growing up as a Chinese American in the Bay Area, my childhood was carefully structured—piano lessons, art classes, swim practice, after-school programs, and Chinese school all woven into a tightly packed schedule. Achievement was not simply encouraged; it was expected. Praise came in moments of excellence, leaving little room to explore who I might have been outside those accomplishments. I dreamed of playing basketball, of learning martial arts, even of becoming a pop star—aspirations that felt vivid, but ultimately peripheral.
Layered together, these experiences resemble what is often described as “eldest daughter syndrome”: a pattern of overachievement, people-pleasing, and a deeply ingrained sense of responsibility, often accompanied by difficulty establishing personal boundaries. It is a quiet conditioning—one that rewards reliability while leaving little space for self-definition.
When my brother, William, entered my life, it was both enchanting and sobering. He brought joy, but also a new awareness of what was expected of me. My parents framed his care as part of my role, and I accepted it without question. There was no moment of resistance, no negotiation—only a quiet internalization of duty.
Taking on such responsibility can shape a person in profoundly different ways. For some, it fosters resilience, empathy, and deep familial bonds. For others, it can seed a lingering sense of resentment—an unspoken tension borne from being asked to inhabit adulthood before childhood has fully run its course.
Theresa with her brother, William
Image courtesy of Theresa Luong
For a long time, I came to resent the very person who I was told would be my lifelong companion—my brother. Our relationship was marked by tension and volatility for much of our lives, persisting well into my late twenties. It took years of introspection—through journaling, reflection, and therapy—for me to begin untangling the roots of that resentment.
I came to understand that I needed to establish boundaries, even when they ran counter to what my parents had long expected of me. Just as importantly, I had to confront my brother with honesty—acknowledging the ways my unresolved feelings had shaped how I treated him. In doing so, I was finally able to take responsibility for my part and offer a genuine apology, one grounded not only in regret, but in understanding.
Quite literally at midnight, I asked my brother, William, to come into my room. He was surprised—I almost never ask him for anything; if anything, it’s usually the other way around. I told him I needed to share something serious, and that I had to say it then or I might never find the courage again.
I apologized for the resentment I had carried and for the way I treated him growing up. My words were often harsh—mirroring the way our parents spoke to me—but not to him, because they protected him and built a safety net around him that I never had. I told him I hadn’t meant to hurt him, and that I hoped he could understand the role I felt forced into as a second parent.
I explained how overwhelming that responsibility had been—how it felt like a burden I never chose, and how, in many ways, my own childhood seemed to slip away under its weight. I admitted that I had grown resentful, convincing myself that he was the reason I missed out on so much. Looking back, I see how unfair and selfish that was, and I told him how deeply sorry I am.
I also told him I wanted to rebuild our relationship—one rooted in trust, understanding, and mutual respect, rather than distance or resentment. He was quiet at first, clearly processing everything. What surprised me most, though, was how readily he forgave me. He told me he never blamed me—he just never understood why I acted the way I did.
Since then, I have learned to forgive myself for my past actions and to accept that I am not responsible for my brother’s choices—or his life. Letting go of the need to control his path, just as my parents once had to do with mine, has lifted a heavy burden from my shoulders.
If you feel like you’re in a similar position as the eldest daughter who became a “second parent,” then you’re not alone! Read The Eldest Daughters Who Became Parents to explore ways to redefine your role in your family.