I Raised My Sibling — But No One Raised Me

There’s a strange ache that comes with being the eldest in a brown household. You’re born into a role you never signed up for, and before you even realise it, you’re balancing two identities: a child in your own right and a substitute parent for the one who came after you.

For me, that’s what it often felt like. I wasn’t just the big sister — I was the reminder, the comforter, the problem-solver, the one expected to “know better.” I was the one who had to step in when things got messy.

My younger sister is one of the most important people in my life, and I wouldn’t trade our bond for anything. But if I’m being honest, sometimes I feel like I never got the chance to just be her sibling. I had to raise her in small ways — making sure she ate, calming her down when she spiralled, defending her when no one else would. And in the process, I learned how to take care of everyone else before I even knew how to take care of myself.

The Invisible Job

No one ever sat me down and said, “Here, this is your responsibility.” It wasn’t official. It was quiet, invisible, and constant.

It was in the look my parents gave me when my sister cried.
It was in the expectation that I’d sacrifice my plans so hers could go smoothly.
It was in the words, “You’re the older one. You should know better.”

It’s called parentification — when a child takes on adult responsibilities, especially emotional ones. And while some people might say it “builds character,” the truth is, it also builds exhaustion.

Because when you’re the one everyone leans on, who do you lean on?

A Poem in the Middle

Sometimes prose doesn’t cut it, so here’s what it feels like in poem form:

I held her hand before I learned to hold my own.


I dried her tears before I let myself cry.


I gave her advice I didn’t even believe,


because someone had to sound wise.

I was the shield, the steady one,


the quiet rock in every storm.


But no one asked if I was cold,


standing out there alone.

They clapped when I was “so mature.”


They praised me for being “strong.”


But the truth is, I was still a child,


just trying to belong.

The Cost of Being “Strong”

The hardest part about this dynamic is that you learn to bury your own needs.

You don’t cry first.


You don’t fall apart.


You don’t get to mess up — because you’re the one who’s supposed to hold everything together.

And while I love my sister deeply, there were moments when I resented the role. Because instead of being cared for, I was the caregiver. Instead of asking for help, I was the helper. Instead of being seen as a kid figuring things out, I was seen as the one who had it together.

But the truth is — I didn’t.

Trying to Relearn

Now that we’re older, I’m slowly unlearning. I don’t want our bond to be built on obligation. I want us to laugh together, to fight like siblings, to share secrets without it feeling like counselling.

I’m learning that I don’t always have to show up as the “second parent.” That it’s okay to say no. That I can let her figure things out without swooping in to fix everything.

It’s a process — because habits formed in childhood don’t disappear overnight. But every time I set a boundary, every time I admit, “I’m tired, I can’t do this right now,” I feel a little lighter.

If You’ve Been There Too

If you’ve ever raised your sibling — emotionally, physically, or both — then you know the strange duality of pride and fatigue. You love them fiercely, but you mourn the childhood you didn’t fully get to have.

And maybe the first step in healing is simply naming it. Saying out loud:
“I raised my sibling. But no one raised me.”

Not because you don’t love them.


Not because you’re ungrateful.

But because your story matters too.