My name is Big Sis.
Sometimes, I’m “big sisi,” other times I’m “my big sister,” “biggest sis,” Ada beke, Ada n’ata ukuw anu, nne nwa, Aunty big sis, the list is endless. But none of these is my government name.
I am a firstborn daughter. That means I’ve been the emotional glue of my family since before I understood what emotions were.
My father named me Chinaenyenwa; his "answered prayer" for a baby girl. Sometimes, I wonder if that answer was also a curse in disguise.
Come with me, Let's unpack.
I was sixteen when it hit me that I wasn’t just a daughter. Somehow, I had become a mother too.
I was in boarding school when I had a dream that my mum had died. I woke up shaking. I couldn’t focus in class. I felt an unexplainable urgency. So I did what any determined sixteen-year-old would do: I scaled the school fence and went home.
When I arrived, they told me my mum had been rushed to the hospital. To make matters worse, my dad was out of town. She hadn’t eaten a proper meal because there was no one to cook for her. There were plenty of people in the house thanks to the “Nwa Boi” system, but still, no one was caring for her.
My baby brother, the only one still in primary school, had gone to school for the day. At the hospital, I was relieved she didn’t look as bad as the dream had painted. But I didn’t stop to feel. I did what I had been trained to do: I took charge.
I went home, made jollof rice, and sent it to her. I batch-cooked meals for the next three days. I tried to reach my dad (this was when GSM was relatively new ). I checked on my siblings at school. I went back to the hospital, briefed my mum, and returned to school like nothing happened.
I was sixteen. But that moment is a core memory and a reminder that i have to be prepared to step in at all times.
Growing up, I lost count of how many times I heard,
“Take care of your brothers,” or “Remember, you’re the senior.”
Eventually, it became my unspoken duty, my job description. I became the emotional anchor of the family. My thoughts, my actions, even my silence, were shaped around keeping everyone else okay. I wasn’t being raised for myself. I was being trained to hold the house together regardless of the presence of my parents.
I don’t remember the first time I received that instruction; maybe there was no specific moment. All I know is, I’ve always been looking out for someone.
Now, I wonder if my constant need to give advice and protect others is a true reflection of my personality, or just what being “big sis” has shaped me into. I can’t tell anymore. But I know I’m always watching out for people, whether or not they’re related to me.
It didn’t stop as we grew up. Some of my siblings are now married, with spouses, homes, and kids. And still, I’m mothering everyone. Their wives. Their husbands. Their children. Even though I’m not married myself.
I’m still the one they call when things go wrong.
I'm still checking in.
Still settling arguments,
Still planning meals when we go home for events and celebrations,
Still solving problems...
Sometimes, I wonder what it would feel like to stop, to not feel guilty for sitting things out. But even the thought brings tension. That tells me how deep the wiring goes.
I’ve carried this role for so long, I thought it was who I was.
Now I’m not so sure.
Is my urge to nurture a sign of who I am, or a function of me being “Big Sis”?
My silence when I’m hurt,
Is that emotional maturity, or just me being the big sister and suppressing my feelings?
My tendency to overdo it when someone needs help,
Is that generosity or just me putting myself last again?
Cooking was my first big wake-up call.
I thought I loved it.
I cooked when people were sick, stressed, hungry, or happy. It became my love language. It was how I showed up.
But now that I’m getting to know myself outside of duty, I’ve realized that I hate cooking.
I didn’t love it. I used it to fill a gap. To say “I’m here for you” when I didn’t know how else to show love.
I confused service with self.
That’s what a lot of first daughters do. We build our identities around what we’ve always done, not who we really are.
Now I’m choosing to unlearn. To break the pattern. To find out what I like, what I want, who I am, when nobody needs me.
It hasn’t been easy. On some days, I feel lost. On other days, I feel free. But I’m moving forward anyway. I owe that to myself.
If you’re a first daughter and this hits you in the chest, I see you. Let’s walk this path together.
It’s okay to let go of the role.
It’s okay to put yourself first.
It’s okay to rest.
It’s okay to live soft, loud, quiet, or wild, whatever brings peace.
The only constant is that you are living.
You don’t owe everyone your entire self.
You are not a machine.
You are not their savior.
You are not the family therapist.
You are a human being who deserves joy, softness, and rest.
You’ve carried enough.
Now it’s your turn to familiarise yourself with the version of you that’s finally waking up and saying,
“I want more.”
Live for her.
Choose her.
Stop apologizing for it.
Being a first daughter is part of you. But it is not all of you.
It’s time to meet your other selves.
Live them.
Breathe them.
Feel them.
Cheers to this first step.
I’m rooting for you.