As a kid, I could have used… a little more love and affection.

This was the first answer that came to me as I was doing this archaeology exercise. The speed at which it surfaced made me understand what people mean when they say their heart skips a beat. My eyes started to well up at the realisation.

I am a firstborn. The eldest daughter in a family of four. I didn’t choose this; I found myself here, and apparently, there were no take-backsies. In 1990, I arrived in this world, and for the past 35 years, I have been trying to make sense of my place within it. The reasons and meaning behind this journey are still things I am working to understand. That is a story best saved for another day.

The first time I truly remember being a firstborn was likely on the same day I assumed the responsibilities of the eldest daughter. Interestingly, that day was frozen in time in a photograph. My mum was heading to work that morning. She needed to drop my sister and me off with a family friend since we didn’t have a nanny. I was about seven years old, and my sister was three. I held my sister’s hand while we walked a narrow path between mabati houses. It was a shortcut, and my mum led the way. My sister tripped over a rock, fell, and scraped her knee. She started crying immediately. My mum picked her up and, once we reached the main road, handed her a handkerchief and wiped her knee. That was the moment we posed, big smiles on our faces and the handkerchief still in my sister’s hand.

That might sound odd, but you must remember this was before smartphones. Whenever you met a photographer (and I use that term very loosely), they would always try to convince you to pose for a photo. Then about a week would go by before you’d receive the printed portrait. We bumped into Baba Muchiri.

Back to this eldest daughter shenanigans. When my mum was ready to leave, my sister started crying again. My mum began to comfort her. She spoke softly, using that soothing tone mothers have when they must leave their kids behind. She told her she was going to the shop and would be back soon. A small white lie meant to soothe her worries. Then she told my sister that I would be with her the whole time, and that meant she’d be okay. My presence was offered as a guarantee of safety and comfort.

In that moment, I was not thinking, ‘eldest daughter duties,’ but I knew I had to make sure she ate her lunch, drank her milk, and played with the other kids. It sounded straightforward. It was definitely not the first occasion I was left in charge of my sister with a supervising adult close by. But for some reason, this day stuck with me. Maybe it’s because of the photo.

That was over twenty years ago. And in that time, my parents decided to have two more children, two boys. I guess they wanted to even out the numbers, or maybe that’s the story they told themselves. Over the years, I cooked countless meals, changed diapers, stayed top of my class (for the most part). I also spent my Saturday mornings doing laundry for the whole family. Yes, that included my father. Why I was cleaning my father’s shirts and pants, I do not know. After laundry came the deep cleaning. Hopefully, I’d be done by 1 p.m., so I could rest before starting dinner prep at four. While I did laundry, my sister did the dishes. Looking back, it feels like I was raising children. I was the family’s mom, doing what a mother does, while my parents played the dad’s role. The providers.

Even with people around me, I never felt appreciated, loved, or noticed. I was there to make everyone’s life easier. No one seemed to care how mine could be easier.

Back then, I didn’t realise what this meant; I just felt… neglected. In our household, I didn’t have a parent. For a long time, it was just the three of us and our parents before our youngest joined this circus. My sister was my dad’s favourite and my brother my mum’s, or as they call them these days, mama’s boy. Yeah, she’s facing significant consequences for that now, but she is responsible for it.

Then, there was me.

The one considered “too mature for her age.” The one who “never needed much.” The one who made do with crumbs. The one who had it together. The one no one thought they had to worry about. The one no one saw. It didn’t matter how well she did in school; she was just smart. How tidy she kept the house; she was just responsible. There was always a convenient explanation for the neglect.

Being that girl has shaped every part of my adult life. My decisions, my friendships, my relationships. The common thread in all of them is that I’ve always felt like I have to beg to be seen. It’s like if I don’t earn my place through effort, service, or self-sacrifice, people will forget about me. When I’m not helping or giving, I feel like I’m of no value.

I know that’s not true. At least, logically. But there are still moments when I feel the need to perform for love or attention. Even from people I know are wrong for me. That’s the thing with wounds that run deep. On the outside, I come off as this confident, don’t-care, self-assured non-conformer. But underneath, I still am that little girl trying to prove that I deserve to be seen.

Was I pushed so hard that I felt I had to pretend not to want what I truly craved?

I’ve gone through some of the hardest moments of my life completely alone. Even while being the one everyone else leans on. People have always called me the strong friend. Definitely not a fan of that label. In my experience, it has meant facing my demons alone. I only come back once I’ve tamed them or convinced myself I have. Maybe expecting people to show up for me the same way I show up for them is a little too much. And as the eldest daughter, you’re not supposed to be too much. Your job is to figure out the problem, fix it, or have it pointed out to you if you don’t.

As a childless woman, I mostly hear from most of my family members when they need something. Never is it ever to check up on me. It doesn’t matter what my state of mind is, what life issues I am dealing with, or whether someone has broken my heart. I guess the dynamics haven’t changed much since childhood.

Whenever I’ve been honest about wanting something different, others have dismissed it. The worst line of all is, “You’re Em, you’ve got this.” No, I haven’t got this. In fact, I haven’t been gotting shit for a while. (Yeah, I know that’s not a real word, but I’m using it anyway.)

I have told a few friends that I could be drowning right next to them, and they wouldn’t even know it.

Have you ever felt like there isn’t enough room for your feelings in a situation? I have felt like this too many times, and even when I said it out loud, I still wasn’t heard.

These days, I find myself preparing for a life where it’s just me and my fur babies. The “crazy cat lady” life doesn’t sound so bad, given how relationships are going anyway. Yeah, I’ve seen those crying videos all over TikTok.

Still, I’m building new rituals. I’m learning to create community through honesty. Calling or texting someone when the darkness creeps in. Reminding my friends that I love them, reminding myself that I love me.

I’ve been dedicating songs to myself. Every time I hear a love song, I let it be for me. I don’t want to be waiting around for someone who might never show up for me to experience such small joys. I am mothering others less and less and allowing myself to show up as I am.

Discovering new ways to see myself with patience. All of me. Because now I understand that’s all Little Em ever wanted.

I see her. And I hope you do too.