In my last year in senior high school, I confessed to my uncle a secret: my desire to study abroad.
Through wistful eyes, I envisioned a life free from steady routines and rigid expectations. But when he asked what was standing in my way, reality quickly came crashing down. Dejected, I chronicled my duties and responsibilities to my family here in Manila. In response, he simply asked, “So what?”
As the eldest daughter, this was not just a conversation about dreams; it was about sacrifice. Often falling unrecognized, the duties of firstborns are lifelong commitments, silently rewriting their futures to prioritize others’ needs rather than their own ambitions.
For firstborn children or the panganay in Filipino households, devotion is a lesson learned at a young age. Our “utang na loob” teaches them to express eternal gratitude by upholding the needs of their family—even at the cost of their own well-being. Dubbed as the “role model” from birth, eldest children are primed to be the future breadwinners and carriers of the household’s burning torch. On their shoulders sits the immense weight of delivering the aspirations of the collective.
With high expectations in tow, firstborns face the silent, suffocating weight of perfection and dedication beyond what one has left to give. But when you are the panganay or the eldest, more so if you are a daughter, it is a role that can quickly become overwhelming.
“Ate,” my family calls me. And with just one mutter of this endearment—whether a shout in the night or a whisper in the storm—I rush to their aid, dropping everything to tend to their needs.
Beyond acting as a second parent, the ate is expected to be a second mother. Domestic responsibilities and emotional labor come tenfold as traditional gender stereotypes exacerbate the effect. To illustrate this, American family therapist Katie Morton coined the term “Eldest Daughter Syndrome” for the invisible weight that burdens women in the household. This is the feeling of the ate when she is called to help while her brothers and male cousins sit idly on the side. It is the hurt that wells when her mistakes are highlighted, and the lingering guilt that looms when she seeks respite.
As the ate, I am told to remain strong for others. Biting my tongue, I put my own grief on hold so I could offer a shoulder for my family to cry on. Despite my exhaustion, I continue to mop and sweep in the late hours of the night, ignoring my tears as they fall.
Yet, no matter how much I give away, I still fall a step short of expectations. Weighed against my frequent shortcomings, the name ate suddenly feels ill-fitting. As I think about the future that awaits me, a life of responsibility to others, I feel my ambitions falter.
But, before doubt can fully take root, one person showed me the quiet dignity of the daughter’s often unseen role. Through my mother, the ate who has never wavered, I find the strength to persevere in the labor of unconditional love.
The primary supporter of two families—one as a single parent, the other as the eldest daughter—my mother displays unparalleled strength. Despite the years that have elapsed, she endures with the same blazing determination to make everyone’s dreams come true, even if it is no longer her own.
But to be the eldest daughter should not always mean sacrificing oneself. Family should not be seen as the child’s solitary burden but, instead, as comfort amid the world’s chaos. Through my mother, I have learned that being an ate does not require the erasure of self, but rather an expansion of it. In her actions, she has proven that family is not a burden that drags us behind. Rather, it is the very engine that propels us forward.
Still, the weight remains. Each eldest daughter carries her own version of struggle—often unnoticed, rarely acknowledged. So to those who have felt unheard, you are not alone. Ate, you do not have to bear this cross by yourself.
