Growing up, I was the “healthy” child in a family shaped by special needs. My older brother has autism, my younger one has epilepsy. Our home revolved around their routines, their therapies, their emergencies. I learned early how to be quiet, helpful, and low-maintenance. I didn’t resent them—I loved them—but I often felt invisible. My feelings were secondary, my needs negotiable. I became the reliable one, the one who didn’t cause trouble. But as I got older, I started to dream. I imagined a future that was mine—college, travel, independence. I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d get to live for myself.
Then came the conversation that changed everything. I was told, gently but firmly, that my future needed to include my brothers. That I’d be expected to help care for them, maybe even take over one day. It wasn’t a request—it was a roadmap I hadn’t drawn. I remember nodding, trying to look mature, but inside I was crumbling. I felt like my dreams had been quietly erased, replaced with duty. I didn’t know how to say no. I didn’t even know if I was allowed to want something different. The guilt was instant and overwhelming.
I’ve spent years carrying that silent burden. Smiling through it, excelling in school, being the dependable daughter. But I’ve also felt a growing ache—a sense that my life isn’t entirely mine. I’ve watched friends move away, chase careers, fall in love, while I stay close to home, just in case. I’ve missed out on things I never even got to consider. And the hardest part is that no one sees it. To the outside world, I’m lucky. I’m “normal.” But inside, I’m tired. I’m grieving a life I never got to try.
I don’t blame my parents. They’ve done their best in impossible circumstances. I know they’re scared of what happens when they’re gone. I know they love all of us. But sometimes love comes with expectations that feel like chains. I wish someone had asked me what I wanted. I wish I didn’t feel selfish for wanting space, freedom, a life that’s just mine. I wish I could say these things out loud without feeling like a terrible person. But I’ve learned to swallow those feelings, to keep them tucked behind my smile.
Lately, I’ve started to wonder if there’s a middle ground. A way to honor my family without losing myself. I don’t have all the answers, but I know I can’t keep living in the shadows. I want to be there for my brothers—but I also want to be there for me. Maybe that means setting boundaries. Maybe it means hard conversations. Maybe it means disappointing people I love. But I think it’s time. Because I deserve a future that includes me, too.
So here I am, saying it out loud for the first time: I matter, too. My dreams, my voice, my life—they’re not less important just because I was born without a diagnosis. I’m not just the healthy child. I’m a whole person. And I’m finally ready to live like it.
