Middle Child

I don’t really remember the first time I decided to stay quiet instead of asking for help. Maybe it was when I realized people already had enough on their plates. Maybe it was when I noticed how tired my parents were, or how loud the world could be when someone else was speaking. Or maybe… I just got used to being the one who was fine.

I’m the second daughter. The second child. The middle child.

Not the one who paves the way. Not the baby who gets protected. Just… in between. Expected to be okay. To understand. To adjust. To be strong.

And I did. I adjusted. I learned how to manage my emotions quietly. I became the one who didn’t need checking on because “she’s mature” or “she always figures it out.” I heard those things and wore them like armor, even when I was breaking inside.

I didn’t know how to say, “I’m not okay.”
I didn’t want to be a burden.
So I swallowed it.
All of it.

Disappointments, confusion, fear, pressure — I held them all close, smiled, and went on like I was fine. I became really good at that. Being fine. Being composed. Being the “strong one.”

But no one tells you how heavy that strength becomes when no one sees your struggle.
No one tells you that the longer you stay quiet, the harder it becomes to speak.

It’s not that I didn’t want help.
I just didn’t know how to ask.

I didn’t know how to interrupt someone’s day and say, “Hey, I’m really not okay today.”
I didn’t know how to cry in front of people without feeling like I was letting them down.
I didn’t know how to admit that sometimes, being the strong one feels incredibly lonely.

Maybe you know what that feels like too.

Maybe you’re also the one who everyone assumes is doing fine. The one who listens to everyone but doesn’t know who to turn to. The one who’s always giving, always adjusting, always “okay” but inside, you’re tired. You’re overwhelmed. You just want someone to notice without having to ask.

If that’s you, I want you to know this:

You’re allowed to ask for help.
You’re allowed to need support.
You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes.
You don’t have to be the strong one all the time.

Being the middle child taught me how to endure — but I’m slowly teaching myself that survival isn’t the same as healing. That silence doesn’t have to be my only language. That it’s okay to say, “I need someone right now.” That I am just as worthy of care and softness as anyone else.

I’m still learning to let people in.

Still learning that asking for help doesn’t make me weak, it makes me human.

We’re figuring it out together.

Always,

Prei