Growing up as the firstborn often comes with an invisible checklist—be responsible, set the example, make no mistakes. From an early age, I learned how to carry the weight of expectations like a second skin. Whether it was excelling in school, staying out of trouble, or always being the “strong one,” success was defined for me before I had the chance to define it for myself.

In many ways, that pressure shaped me. It gave me structure, drive, and the ability to rise to almost any occasion. But it also came with a cost—self-doubt, perfectionism, and a constant fear of falling short. The idea of making a mistake felt like letting the whole world down.

It took time—and plenty of unlearning—to realize that success doesn’t have to look like constant achievement or perfection. Real success, I’ve come to learn, is self-defined. It’s knowing your values, honoring your pace, and giving yourself grace along the way.

Now, I measure success by how aligned I feel with who I am and how I live. I’ve learned to celebrate progress, not just results. To rest without guilt. To speak kindly to myself, even when I fall short.

Being the firstborn may have started my story, but it doesn’t get to write the ending. I do.