I Have Eldest Daughter Syndrome. Here Are 3 Things My Therapist Told Me to Stop Doing

Let me set the scene: The year is 2002 and I’m at Hershey’s Park with my family and three family friends. It’s the humidest day of the year, and the sweet smell of chocolate feels nausea-inducing against the steam of the roller coasters. I, four years old at the time, am sitting next to my mother on the flume ride. The water is splashing around the sides of the boat and deafening screeches are coming from the rowdy children beside us. I notice Mom’s knuckles, which are white from tightly gripping the bar of the ride, and a forced smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Mom,” I ask, peering up at her with as much seriousness as a 4-year-old could muster. “Are you and Dad gonna get a divorce?”

As you can imagine, her face froze in shock. How did her four-year-old know what divorce was? And more importantly, how did I know to ask the question in the right context? The short answer is that my father—a commodities broker on Wall Street—incited more stomach churns than the SooperDooperLooper that day. He’d been a snappy bundle of nerves; eagerly checking his pager for intel on a trade happening in New York. (Pre-iPhone era, Gen Z). My mother, meanwhile, was in hell. Between the heat, dad’s temper and juggling two kids under the age of four—all while trying to socialize with the group—I now wish I could’ve ditched the ride and grabbed martinis with her instead.

Nevertheless, I recall the tension of the day, which felt thicker than the 90-degree air. There was a silent storm brewing, despite my mother’s best attempts to mask it. And while my parents are still together 21 years later (dad chilled out after he left the trading floor), I now realize this was my first clear memory of “reading the room.” As with most eldest daughters, I often felt like my family’s emotional barometer—always attuned to subtle shifts in the mood and atmosphere. It’s a skill that’s only sharpened over time, making it easy to pick up the emotional lint of others. Yet, while being hyper-aware has had its upsides, it’s also laid the foundation for what I now recognize as Eldest Daughter Syndrome (EDS).

For those who don’t know, Eldest Daughter Syndrome has been blowing up TikTok with more than 69 million posts. The term went viral after Kati Morton, a licensed marriage and family therapist, posted the video above and shared, “Eldest daughter syndrome is not an official mental health diagnosis. It’s a term coined to describe the unique pressures and responsibilities placed onto the oldest daughter in the family.” In short, she speaks directly to the Hershey’s Park scenario above. The syndrome stems from Birth Order Theory; eldest daughters are highly attuned to their surroundings at an early age. Older sisters like me are intrinsically primed for the “third parent” role, where we feel obligated to manage the emotions of those around us. This, in turn, leads to heightened emotional intelligence—plus potential resentment for our siblings, who don’t assume the same expectations from our parents. Per Morton’s video, a few key characteristics that define EDS are:

• You have an intense feeling of responsibility
• You are an overachiever, Type A and very driven
• You worry a lot and probably have anxiety
• You struggle with people-pleasing behaviors
• You have a hard time placing and upholding boundaries
• You resent your siblings and family
• You struggle with feelings of guilt
• You have a difficult time in your adult relationships

When you account for some of the buzzwords above, like “anxiety” or “control” or “guilt,” it’s easy to see why EDS would make for a difficult walk in the dating park. Take me, the eldest of two sisters, for instance. My emotional antenna was an asset in childhood—it allowed me to tap into my family’s emotions, smooth over rifts and effectively make everyone feel OK. The catch-22, however, is that I never learned how to sit with uncomfortable emotions (I’d just try to ‘fix’ them). This is why, in adulthood, dating felt more like a “win/fail” scenario. Relationships that didn’t work out were inherently my fault—and a first date that didn't lead to a second was because I did something wrong. There was no reality where I *couldn’t* meet someone’s emotional expectations; I simply had to try harder. 

But then, I started therapy. It’s where I learned that I inherently crave control—and assume too much responsibility in relationships—which leaves me with a never-ending sense of guilt (all staples of EDS). It was also the first time someone told me it’s fine to not be fine: You’re exactly where you need to be—even if it feels uncomfortable. For years, I operated under the assumption that I’ll be OK, so long as everyone around me was OK. But now, I understand that the only emotions that need managing are my own. 

So, for any of my fellow older sisters (who can’t shell out $350 per session), here are three things I’ve stopped doing since I started therapy. 

Befitting to my perfectionist stereotype, I used to view every date as a test I had to ace. If things didn’t pan out, I’d blame myself. Yet, per my therapist, dating isn’t about getting someone to like you; it’s about sitting back and seeing if you like them. This not only removes the pressure of proving you’re enough, but it allows you to actually enjoy the process of getting to know someone. When I let go of unreachable expectations—and I stopped treating dating like a series of tests—I felt a 50-pound weight lifted from my chest. I didn’t have to exhaust myself by trying to win someone over with a flawless performance. (I could just… be myself?) Now I just sit back, relax and let the connection evolve in the way it’s supposed to. Very control freak meets Gandhi.

Speaking of control freaks, it’s time to let go of managing others’ emotions. While this was a useful tool in childhood, it made me incredibly anxious in adulthood. Trying to control my dating dynamics—from managing the flow of conversation to gauging how my date perceives me—was a one-way ticket to overthinking. This became most apparent when my therapist told me, “True connection isn’t about control; it’s about vulnerability.” It was a perspective shift that made me see how external control means a lack of internal control (and vice versa). When I accepted that everyone is flawed, and that a frizzy hair day won’t make or break a second date, I opened myself up to genuine connections. In fact, I’ve noticed that people actually like seeing my less-than-perfect side. (As an ex-beau once said, “It shows me you’re human.”)

Disclaimer: I probably wouldn’t give this advice to a younger sibling. This is because the youngest tends to be, shall we say, self-oriented (selfish). And while they can’t help but prioritize their own interests, elder siblings face the opposite issue: People-pleasing is in our DNA. In relationships, I’d habitually suppress my own desires to keep my partner happy. This led to a) unbalanced dynamics where I couldn’t get what I needed and b) constantly feeling unappreciated and resentful. Per my therapist, however, “There’s value in communicating what you need from a partner—even if it doesn’t feel important.” One of the best examples she offered was saying, “I want dumplings for dinner,” even if I know my partner wants pizza. It’s not that I’d die without a soup dumpling—I’m always down for white pizza from Joe’s—but it’s important to let someone know what I want, too (plus having the balls to verbalize it). Admittedly, this is still a work in progress. But habitually making requests—even if it’s as small as a dinner order—has shown me how relationships are built on mutual respect, not self-sacrifice.