“How many siblings do you have?”
It is such a simple question, asked casually in small talk or introductions. Most people expect a short answer, a number that tells them almost nothing about you. I usually respond, “Two brothers, one older and one younger.”
That answer is true, but it does not begin to explain what those roles have meant in my life. Being the only daughter and the middle child shaped how I see myself, how I handle emotions, and how I relate to others in ways that are not obvious from the outside.
Growing up as the only girl in a family of boys often felt like walking a tightrope. On one side were the expectations of being “ladylike,” a word that floated around my childhood in subtle reminders. At family gatherings, I was told to be polite, to keep my voice even, making sure I never cursed. On the other side was the constant comparison to my brothers in school. I was expected to match their grades and achievements. I did not mind the academic expectations, because they made me believe I was just as capable. What was harder was reconciling the two sides: to succeed as much as my brothers while also appearing composed, reserved, and careful.
In my family, emotions were not treated as valuable. Frustration, sadness, or even too much excitement were seen as distractions from achievement. I learned quickly to hold those feelings in, even when they weighed on me. For years, I thought composure was the only way to be taken seriously. Yet the emotions did not disappear. They found other places to surface.
One outlet became volunteering. I spent hours helping younger students with homework after school or assisting at community events. In those spaces, I allowed myself to be more open and gentle, qualities I muted at home. Listening to a child explain a frustration with a math problem or watching someone relax when I offered help gave me permission to feel my own frustrations and relief. Volunteering taught me that empathy and emotion were not weaknesses. They were ways to connect and make a difference.
Dance became another outlet. In a studio filled with mirrors and music, I could let feelings move through me without words. A hard day showed up in sharp, stomping steps; joy turned into light spins and stretches. Unlike at home, where stillness and restraint were praised, dance allowed me to take up space. The more I practiced, the more I realized that expressing emotions did not reduce my strength. It gave it shape and rhythm.
Being the middle child brought its own lessons. My older brother drew attention simply for being the first to do everything. My younger brother drew care because he was the youngest. I often felt invisible in between. At birthday dinners or family outings, I noticed how the spotlight tilted toward them, leaving me to manage myself. Over time, I stopped expecting to be noticed and learned to take care of things alone. Independence became my default. I stayed up late to finish assignments without asking for help, solved small setbacks quietly, and learned to trust myself when no one else was paying attention.
That independence gave me a quiet confidence, but it also created blind spots. Because I was so used to working alone, I heard feedback as criticism rather than guidance. A teacher’s suggestion to rethink an essay paragraph felt like proof that I had failed, not an opportunity to grow. When friends offered advice, I often shut it out, determined to figure things out myself. Only later did I realize that my self-reliance, while powerful, was also a limitation. True independence is not about refusing help but knowing when to accept it.
These family roles still echo in my daily life. In group projects, I am often the first to step into responsibility, convinced that if I do not take charge, things will fall apart. In friendships, I am quick to listen and support others, though slower to share my own challenges. My independence fuels ambitious goals, while my awareness of emotions—nurtured through volunteering and dance—helps me build connections that go deeper than surface conversation.
Sometimes I wonder whether someone who has just met me could sense this history. Could they notice the way I quickly take initiative and imagine the middle child who learned to rely on herself? Could they see my steady composure and guess that I grew up in a household where emotions were seen as weakness? Or would they only hear the surface answer, that I have two brothers, without realizing the weight behind it?
When people ask about siblings, they may not be asking for a number at all. They are asking, in a way, about identity, about how family shapes who we are. My simple answer, “Two brothers,” leaves out the story of being the daughter who was expected to stay composed, the middle child who often felt overlooked, and the person who learned to carve out space through independence and expression. What I carry with me is larger than birth order. It is the discipline of self-reliance, the struggle and eventual acceptance of emotions, and the balance between standing alone and opening up to others. These lessons are not visible at first glance, but they shape the way I study, work, and build relationships every day.