In every struggling family, there is always one person who breaks through the walls of poverty first—the first to graduate, the first to leave the village, the first to find a job in the city, the first to earn in foreign currency. That person becomes the symbol of hope, the evidence that it is possible to escape, the pride of the family.
But being the first to rise comes with a hidden tax.
It is not written in books or contracts. It is not spoken aloud. But it is felt—deeply and constantly. The expectation to succeed is heavier than the success itself. From the moment the first breadwinner makes progress, the family's entire destiny is unofficially placed in their hands.
Suddenly, the problems of everyone else become their problems. The sick uncle's hospital bill. The younger sibling's school fees. The roofing of the ancestral home. The funeral rites of an aged grandparent. All these responsibilities quietly gather at the feet of the one who made it out.
And they are expected to say yes. Every time.
There is little room for personal dreams. Every choice is scrutinized. Every "no" is seen as betrayal. If they don't pick up calls, they are labeled proud. If they delay assistance, they are deemed stingy. If they set boundaries, they are accused of forgetting their roots. The family does not mean to be cruel—but their expectations become chains.
The first to rise becomes the blueprint for everyone else. But unlike blueprints, they were never prepared. No one taught them how to carry so much. No one trained them for the weight of responsibility. They are learning as they go—failing, stumbling, trying to do right by everyone.
This pressure leads to guilt. Every time they spend on themselves, they feel selfish. Every moment of rest feels stolen. Every small luxury—a new phone, a vacation, a nice outfit—is shadowed by the thought that someone back home is still hungry. So, they shrink. They deny themselves joy. They delay their own life.
It also leads to isolation. They stop talking about their struggles because they know people will not understand. They hide their pain because they're expected to be the strong one. Over time, they begin to feel like they don't belong anywhere—not fully accepted in their new world, and no longer understood in the old one.
And yet, despite it all, they keep giving.
They work harder. They stretch further. They sacrifice more. Because they remember the hunger. The darkness. The shame. They remember the smell of poverty. And they never want their family to feel it again. So they give, and give, and give—until there is little left for themselves.
But the burden must be shared.
The story of the first to rise should not be one of exhaustion and quiet suffering. Families must learn to support, not just receive. To ask, but also give. To appreciate, not just expect. The journey of one should become the empowerment of many—not the destruction of one.
Being the first to rise is a blessing. But without understanding and support, it becomes a slow descent into burnout.
The future must be built on shared responsibility. It must be okay for the breadwinner to say: "I am tired." "I need help too." "I want to live for me, not just for everyone else."
Because freedom is not real if it costs you your peace.