I’ve often wondered why so many eldest daughters become healers.

They become the ones who instinctively hold families together, remember birthdays, call first after an argument, and quietly make sure no relationship drifts too far apart. It doesn’t matter how many siblings there are; if there’s an elder sister, chances are she’s still trying to keep everyone connected.

I don’t think she is born that way.

I think she becomes that way.

The moment a younger sibling arrives, something changes. Whether she’s two years old or ten, she is suddenly “the elder one.” Almost overnight, she is expected to understand more, adjust more, share more, and set an example for the little ones who will follow.

That is the day she stops being just a child.

Without realizing it, she grows into the dependable one. The peacemaker. The one who shows up when no one else does. Along with her own dreams, she begins carrying the hopes of her parents and the quiet responsibilities of being the eldest sibling.

Years pass, and giving becomes second nature.

She checks in on everyone. She remembers what others forget. She keeps families talking, traditions alive, and relationships stitched together. Somewhere along the way, she forgets that love can have boundaries too. No one ever taught her that caring for everyone else didn’t have to come at the cost of caring for herself.

Then, one day, life gently holds up a mirror.

She realizes she has spent so many years showing up for everyone else that she no longer knows how to show up for herself.

So she begins to change.

She starts saying no without guilt. She protects her peace. She lets go of burdens that were never hers to carry. She chooses herself—not instead of others, but alongside them.

To those around her, it looks as though she has changed.

Perhaps she has.

Not because she loves less, but because she has finally understood that love without boundaries slowly becomes self-abandonment.

What some see as selfishness is often self-respect.

What looks like distance is sometimes healing.

Like a phoenix, she rises—not from someone else’s fire, but from the ashes of the little girl who learnt too early that being loved meant being responsible.

Maybe that’s why so many eldest daughters become healers.

Before they ever learnt to heal themselves, they had already spent a lifetime healing everyone else.

—-Suvi’s Scribbles