I’ll Always Be the Little Sister — Even When I’m Not

When you’re the youngest, there are roles already written for you.

You’re the baby. The crybaby. The sensitive one. The one who always needs help. The one who doesn’t get to be complicated—just corrected. The one who’s bossed around “for your own good.” The one who, no matter how old you get, will never be allowed to grow up in their eyes.

Even now, in my thirties, It still feels that I’m seen that way by my family.

No matter how many titles I’ve earned, countries I’ve explored, or quiet victories I’ve achieved, I still feel like the little sister who couldn’t keep it together. The one crying in the bathroom at family gatherings. The one full of anxiety, panicked to please. The one who’s trying too hard—or not hard enough. The one who’s always just a little too much.

But I guess that’s what family does—at least to me. They don’t bring out my best. In fact, when I’m living my “best life,” it’s rarely with them. And that hurts. I hate admitting it, but around them, I shrink. I fold into the version of myself they expect: obedient, agreeable, silent. The little sister who follows the rules because she always has.

Especially during the darkest time of my life.

I was in college, tangled in a relationship I couldn’t leave. He was possessive. Manipulative. Emotionally explosive. We’d fight all night long—shouting, crying, threats—and then break up. By sunrise, he’d be on my doorstep after a two-hour drive, “proving” his love. I thought this chaos was passion. I thought I could fix him. But what I really was—was unraveling.

My grades slipped. I stopped sleeping. I isolated myself. But on the outside, I played it cool. I didn’t tell my family the truth. I didn’t know how. They said I was the one that should be thankful they don’t know how he put up with me.

One weekend, my sisters drove up unannounced. They got the school letters that I was failing. Their conclusion? I was partying too much. They stormed in with concern disguised as confrontation. They didn’t ask. They assumed. And because they were older—and I was still the “baby”—I sat on the couch and cried instead of correcting them.

There’s a particular kind of loneliness in being misunderstood by the people who claim to know you best.

My brothers weren’t much better. When I showed interest in joining a school program designed to help low-income students get into college, one of them waved it off. “That’s not for you,” he said. What I heard was: You’re not good enough. 

What I felt, deep down, was: Self - hate. If my family didn’t even support me, I wasn’t worth it.

Finding Perspective

Looking back now, I see something complex beneath all that criticism—something painful and protective tangled together. My siblings weren’t trying to crush me. They were trying to protect me—from manipulation, disappointment, and failure. From the pain they had lived through.

But in trying to shield me, they projected their fears onto me. And in doing so, they held me hostage in a version of myself I had long since outgrown.

Being the youngest did come with advantages. Like watching an obstacle course before you run it—I could see where they fell, where they tripped, where they were bruised. I learned from their pain.

But I also inherited their fear. Our home, ruled by unspoken rules and strict expectations, turned secrecy into our family’s native language. We whispered truths to each other that we could never tell our parents. That made us close—but also distorted everything. It blurred boundaries. It kept us in roles we didn’t ask for.

Each of my siblings has faced their own battles. We didn’t all experience the same pain, but we all suffered. We wanted to be there for each other. But we were just too young. Too overwhelmed. Too busy surviving in our own separate silos.

I’m not the big sister. I’m not the baby sister. I’m just a sister—one piece of a complicated mosaic made of love, fear, duty, silence, and misunderstanding.

I used to believe someone had it worse. Someone had it easier. I used to search for the “winner” of the suffering Olympics. But there is no gold medal. There’s just what happened and at the end of the day, we are all still linked to each other.