LIFE HAS no manual that tells you what to do or how to build a happy life. Luckily, growing up felt less overwhelming for me because I had someone who experienced life before I did—my Ate.
In many Filipino households, eldest daughters learn how to fast—not of food, but of wants. They are taught to hold back, to delay their needs, and to quiet their desires to keep the family’s peace. Long before any great sacrifice is asked of them, they are already practiced in deprivation.
During our childhood, Ate and I often quarrelled over the smallest things, whether it was the last grain of rice or pressing the elevator buttons. As the oldest, she was taught by our parents to “give way” to the younger one, so I always got what I wanted. When our family gained another sister, Ate had to sacrifice even more.
My fondest memory of my older sister was when I organized a surprise birthday party for her—something she had said she wanted months earlier. She knew it would be expensive, so she swallowed her guilt and never brought it up to our parents. As her birthday drew closer, no plans seemed to be forming; her excitement slowly faded into quiet disappointment. To keep the surprise, Mommy told her the day before that we would have a simple family dinner only. My Ate agreed without protest, even as the bitterness showed in the way she tried to hide her sadness.
What stayed with me was not just her reaction, but how it felt expected for her. Ate did not ask for more or complain—she simply adjusted. Families often lean on eldest daughters to take the hit, to keep the peace, and in that moment, I realized how accustomed she was to making herself smaller. It was clearly not because she wanted to, but because everyone else had learned that she eventually would.
Repetition makes things feel normal. For Ate, it meant getting used to giving things up. As the first child, she was the family’s test run—the first lamb to the slaughter. No one has a manual for life, not even parents, and so she was treated like the safest thing to experiment with. If mistakes had to be made, they could be made on her; if paths had to be tested, she walked them first, so the rest of us could follow more carefully. I witnessed how tough love shaped her very life, and how she tried to shield me from its edges.
This became clearest when it was time for her to choose a career. Ate wanted to be a veterinarian. She wanted to care for animals, but our parents did not think it was a practical choice. “If magdo-doctor ka ‘man, bakit hindi na lang sa tao?” Once again, Ate adjusted. Instead, she pursued becoming a physical therapist, even if it meant letting go of her own dream. When it was my time to pick a degree, she was there throughout, guiding me toward a program that would suit me the best. Before a lamb is brought to slaughter, it is made to fast. I grew up watching Ate make space for everyone else. Now, I wonder what that cost her. I wonder how many times she swallowed her feelings because speaking up felt like asking for too much. I do not blame my parents, but I definitely question the kind of love we pass down. Tough love may teach endurance, but when the first lamb is sacrificed, a moment of silence is offered.
Selina is a BS Management of Applied Chemistry junior expecting to graduate in 2027. Her piece explores family, sacrifice, and the unspoken expectations placed on women, especially eldest daughters, drawing from personal experiences to examine how love, responsibility, and resilience are passed down across generations.
Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication.
