Some absences are only noticed in hindsight — and some presences never are…..
There’s this particular kind of loneliness that doesn’t have a name yet. It’s not the loneliness of being alone — it’s the loneliness of being surrounded by people who are your “Family” and still somehow not mattering. I’ve been sitting with that feeling for most of my life. And last week, it found me time and again..
Growing up as the eldest daughter meant growing up in a strange in-between – I was helping myself grow up, while parenting my parents and making sure there was peace in the world, all while being invisible, part of the background. I was old enough to be responsible, young enough to be overlooked. I cooked meals, did my homework, helped my sister with hers, mediated fights, translated silences, was obedient and made sure not to anger my mother. I soon became the one people turned to when something needed doing. But being needed isn’t the same as being seen. I learned that early.
The rest of the time — the unstructured time, the celebratory time, the let’s-all-go-out-and-do-something-fun time — I was easy to forget. Not out of cruelty. That’s the part that’s hardest to explain. Not sure if they leave me out deliberately, maybe I just dont matter as much or I am the sour puss.. who knows! I was taken for granted. I was steady, so no one worried about me. I was there, so they assumed I always would be.
I moved cities a few years ago. I was done. It was finally time for me to live my life,enough of living it for others. I was done! Yes, I was..*touch wood* Life has been good, happy, fulfilling and I have been living it on my terms without wondering about accomodating others or making sure there were no feathers being ruffled. I have a partner who cares deeply, and we have brought home not one two dogs that are my world.
While I had nothing but good things going for me, at the end of the day am human!! And entitled to feeling angry and upset, right?
Last week I visited Chennai. My sister was there — she’d flown in for a visit, and the house felt the way it only does when everyone’s back under the same roof. I didn’t stay long. I got back home three days later, settled into my routines, let the quiet of my apartment reset me.
And then I saw the photos she shared in the family group. The place looked familiar, and there were all the familiar faces..
The family had gone out to Lunch to the one place that seems to have become a tradition of sorts [as confirmed by the mothership]. A proper one, by the looks of it — dressed up, smiling, the kind of gathering that gets remembered. Two days after I left. Two days. I don’t know exactly what I felt in that moment. I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal. I’m not a jealous person. I genuinely don’t think I am. But there was something in the timing of it — the specific fact that it didn’t happen while I was there — that sat in my chest like something I couldn’t swallow.
“It wasn’t that they went. It was that they didn’t think to go when I was there.”
Think this time it is bothering me this much is cos I was there till Friday evening 4pm, there was no mention of lunch or a meal out of any sorts till then, and on Sunday was chatting with the sis about some issues with gramma’s ipad, and then she says “going out now”… not even an FYI…
That’s the thing about being the eldest daughter. It’s not the big moments of exclusion that get you. It’s the small, careless ones. The outing plan that just happened to come about… The assumption that you’ll understand, that you’re fine, that you don’t need to be considered — because you never made a fuss about it before. You were always so good at being fine… heck, been the one to have organised or booked such events and not been around for it.
I sat with it for a while before I let myself feel it properly. And what I felt was this: I am still invisible to them. Not maliciously. Not even consciously. Just — by default. I exist in their lives as a presence to be summoned when needed and a distance to be resumed when not. The city I live in isn’t just a city. It’s proof that I’ve learned to stop waiting to be included.
I’m writing this not because I’ve resolved anything. I haven’t called and said hey, that hurt. Which I am never going to do, cos they will feel guitly for a fleeting moment and go back to routine.. I’ll most likely do what I always do, which is quietly file it under things we don’t talk about in this family and go on thinking of them and their needs as I always have.
But I think there are other eldest daughters reading this who know exactly what I mean without me having to explain it further. Who grew up being the responsible one, the capable one, the one who held things together — and who learned, slowly, that capability is not the same as belonging. That being relied upon is not the same as being cherished.
You can leave home. You can build your own life in a new city, find your people, make your own table — one where you are not the help, but the guest of honour. And still, sometimes, a family dinner you weren’t invited to can reach you across hundreds of kilometres and remind you of everything you spent years trying to outgrow.
I’m not sure what the lesson is. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe some things just are — old patterns too comfortable to be broken, family dynamics too settled to be renegotiated. Maybe the work isn’t about changing them. Maybe it’s about learning to grieve, quietly, the version of inclusion I always wanted but never quite received.
And then going back to my life, which is full and real and mine, even when it aches a little….. Sigh..
