Carrying the Weight of Two Worlds

Since I turned 13, I've had a persistent sense that I’m a burden to the people I love. I don’t say this to seek sympathy. Honestly, when people sympathize with the idea of me being a burden, it only amplifies that feeling. Natasha Zaeem, a recent graduate from the University of Waterloo, captured this sentiment perfectly when she told me, “I don’t like being a burden on others, which is why I tell them not to worry about me, even though there are so many people around me who are always willing to be there for me.” Her words struck a chord because we share common ground. As eldest daughters in immigrant families, we both feel like our struggles are ours to carry alone. This burden isn’t just about the tangible tasks or responsibilities; it’s the mental load I’ve been shouldering for years. I didn’t even realize the weight until I hit my breaking point. My inability to care for myself while simultaneously pushing others away turned into a vicious cycle of isolation, one that’s hard to break when you’ve convinced yourself that being a burden is the worst thing you can be.

On the surface, I had a privileged upbringing—my parents provided everything I needed. But beneath that, I was pushed into a role demanding more emotional labour than most kids are ready for. It distanced me from the typical "child" role, forcing me to see my parents as flawed individuals, not the infallible figures I once believed they were before I turned 13.

Between our emotional distance and vastly different life experiences, it often felt like my parents and I were worlds apart. They couldn’t understand why I spent hours on the phone with my friends. They disapproved of me watching Disney Channel, fearing it was a “Westernizing force” that replaced “mama” with “mom.” Looking back, I can sympathize with their concerns—the fear that I was chasing external validation, or that I’d lose the nuances of my culture, or even grow distant from their family history. Hejal Kriplani, a fourth-year at Western University, and the eldest daughter in an Indian household, echoed this feeling, saying, “I feel like there is a barrier between how my parents are and how I am.”

But these tensions didn’t stop at petty grievances. They bled into deeper issues: Fighting in front of me and my brother, dragging us into their conflicts, and creating a disconnect about what a healthy parent-child relationship should look like. Immigrant parents often sacrifice everything to create a better life for their children. My parents left India—the place they grew up, where their parents and friends still are—to build a future for me and my brother. Purva Vyas, from the Geneva Graduate Institute, said, “Growing up with a younger sibling and two full-time working parents made me very independent from a young age, as my parents had less time to devote attention to both of us.”

As eldest daughters, we are often left to bridge the emotional and practical gaps caused by parents focused on building a better future, which strains family dynamics.

The weight of my parents’ sacrifices cast a long shadow over our relationship. They expected me to understand the enormity of what they’d given up by the time I was 13. But at that age, my mind was more occupied with Superwoman YouTube videos, Vines, and sneaking onto Games2win. This created a disconnect between the world they lived in—a world shaped by sacrifice and tradition—and the one I was growing up in, with all its modern distractions and differences.

As the eldest daughter, I found myself balancing a dual role. On one hand, I felt a duty to protect my younger brother from the shortcomings of our upbringing. On the other, I took on the task of reparenting our parents. While they showed their care for me in tangible ways—staying up late while I studied so I wouldn’t be alone, cutting fruit and leaving it by my bedroom door, stocking the pantry with my favorite snacks—I cared for them in intangible ones. I became the mediator, teaching my parents that yelling or using physical discipline wasn’t the best way to build a nurturing relationship with their children. I became the emotional buffer, responsible for maintaining peace, and guiding my parents through the more nuanced aspects of parenting—all while still growing up myself. This sense of responsibility distanced me from my family in ways that felt deeper and more isolating with time. I found myself teaching my parents seemingly simple things like, “Dad, you can help Mom set the table too,” while at other times, I was shutting my brother and myself in our bedroom, turning up the volume on the Wii to drown out the arguments and obscenities flying in the next room.

With age came increasing responsibility, and I consistently felt emotionally responsible for the three other members of my family. I had to put aside much of my child-like nature to support my family in the only way I knew how. But that didn’t mean I was free from typical teenage struggles. In sixth grade, my best friend—practically a sister—moved to Nigeria. We had known each other since we were three, and when she left, it felt like my whole world had been uprooted. We tried to stay in touch through Skype and Google Chat, but slowly, her replies dwindled, and I watched as she made new friends. My jealousy was unrelenting. She was living her life in a new country with new experiences, while I stayed behind, stagnant, with the same responsibilities. Instead of dealing with my feelings, I pushed her away. I didn’t want to hear about her new iPod or her friends with pink streaks in their hair. Losing her, the one person who truly understood me at the time, made me retreat further into myself. By seventh grade, I was facing relentless bullying for being underdeveloped. While my peers grew taller, stronger, and more mature, I stayed small and thin. Classmates I had hoped to befriend called me names like "door" and "boy."

The bullying, paired with losing my best friend, increased my sense that I had to rely on myself. I didn’t want to burden anyone with my pain and to be honest, I wasn’t sure who to turn to. My dad was always working, my mom and I were probably in the middle of one of our endless fights, I was avoiding my best friend, and my little brother was glued to "Doc McStuffins." Between the ages of 13 and 17, I decided it was easier to handle life and all its shortcomings on my own.

Things started to change around 16. I switched schools and met what would become my new best friend. She became my lifeline. We shared everything—parent troubles, crushes, the latest teen angst. For the first time, I had someone I could rely on. I opened up about everything: My fear of not being good enough, how I played therapist every time my parents fought. She knew my family; I knew hers. Our birthdays were even merely a day apart. Meeting her felt like an answered prayer.

Of course, if things had stayed that way, I wouldn’t be writing this. After a very public high school breakup, I found out my best friend was dating my ex. It felt like my heart was being torn in 15 different directions. I felt stupid for ever letting anyone into my world—I’d been internalizing that people are unreliable since I was 13.

After the schism, I began to retreat inwards, developing unhealthy coping mechanisms. I stopped eating as a way to regain control over my life, which felt increasingly out of my hands. This spiraled into a full-blown eating disorder, one that I still battle with today. I embraced a kind of emotional detachment, trying to forgive those who hurt me from afar, convincing myself it was the “right” thing to do. Not that I ever really truly forgave anyone; I was too hurt, too angry, too let down. Let’s be real—forgiveness without true reconciliation isn’t the answer. Abruptly deciding to ‘move on’ is not as cathartic as social media wellness gurus make it out to be. Sometimes, being angry is okay.

Eventually, the cracks in my armor became visible. I started losing weight, shrinking physically just as I had emotionally. I became a smaller, angrier, lonelier version of myself. I wasn’t just angry at the world—I was furious with myself. Why couldn’t I get it right? I fixed everything on my own, took care of my brother, handled my parents—why couldn’t I just make myself okay?

In my last year of high school, my cousin Ambika called me.

In the middle of our conversation, she asked me a question that has haunted me ever since: “Are we allowed to care about you?”

At first, I thought, ‘no.’ No one is allowed to care about me. If they do, they might help—and I’d seen how that turned out. My life had felt like a montage of pushing through rock-bottom moments alone, only to emerge victorious on the other side.

Regardless, Ambika’s question wouldn’t leave me. It stuck with me, gnawing at the foundation of the worldview I had constructed for myself. Should people be allowed to care about me?

At first, I couldn’t answer that. For years, I had prided myself on being self-reliant. It felt like I had always been my own lifeline. Sharzhad Islami, a fourth-year student from the University of Waterloo told me, “It’s kind of my brand at this point that I have to be okay, like I have to turn out fine because I set an example for my siblings and for myself.” That resonated deeply with me. I had spent so much time cultivating an image of resilience that I couldn’t imagine asking for help without dismantling that persona

But here's the thing—I didn’t have to dismantle that resilient persona I’d built. People, whether you let them or not, are going to care about you.

My roommates now sit with me while I rant about my latest frustrations regarding professors or the midterm I swear I didn't have enough time to study for. My boyfriend meets me after my morning classes with breakfast because he knows I likely skipped it. My best friends drag me outside when my depression hits hard, making sure I get some sunlight. My mom sends me care packages from Dubai, knowing that even a small gesture like a new hair straightener for my unruly curls can make a big difference. My dad texts me pictures of our cat hiding on top of the refrigerator because he knows it’ll make me smile. These moments of care have helped me far more than I ever realized. Somewhere along the way, I let people in—even if it was done reluctantly.

Pretending that everything is fine when your world feels like it’s on fire isn’t heroic. It’s self-sabotage. It’s like running a marathon while ignoring a sprained ankle—it only makes the injury worse. This self-reliance reflex is something I still wrestle with. But when I feel it creeping up, I remember Ambika’s question: “Are we allowed to care about you?” The more I reflect on it, I realize that letting people in doesn’t mean I’ve failed—it means I’m human. It’s the recognition that, while I’ve faced many challenges alone, I don’t have to do so forever.

So, maybe, I’m not the burden I feared I am. While I still grapple with that nagging feeling of being an inconvenience, I’m beginning to understand that the people who love me want to be there. They want to listen, just as much as I want to be cared for. That’s not to say it doesn’t hurt to admit when I need help—it still does. And I’m not saying you can’t do everything on your own; you probably could, at least for a while. Accepting help isn’t about giving up my independence or relying on others for everything—it’s about finding balance.

I've had to learn to trust that I can be strong enough to have my own back, even if people disappoint me or if I end up right back at square one. Locking myself away from sympathy or help has often made me feel worse, but in a twisted way, it felt safer. Safer because it meant no one could let me down, and safer because I wouldn’t be burdening anyone with problems that I believe I should be able to handle. Keeping people at arm’s length, though, only keeps the help out of reach too. The reality is, life is full of imperfect people. People will let you down eventually, and sometimes, the person letting you down will be you. But I’ve come to realize that I can’t let my trust issues and my fear of being vulnerable stop me from living fully. I’ve come to understand that allowing others in doesn’t make me weak. It allows me to face my struggles with a little more ease, knowing that I don’t have to carry the burden all by myself. Life isn’t meant to be lived in isolation, and neither are we meant to face it alone.