To My Guiding Star in Heaven: A Story of Love, Loss, and Responsibility
An Ode to the Unsung Heroes: Older Sisters
How many souls out there suffer silently from instrumental and emotional parentification, never acknowledged for their sacrifices? Forced to grow up faster, they learn to suppress their emotions, always being the stronger one, leading their siblings by example.
I carry a deep regret that I never truly acknowledged the hardships my older sister faced while she was alive. I never expressed my gratitude for everything she did — for me, for our family, and for the world around her.
I grew up in a post-Soviet, Qazaq household where the weight of “uyat” — shame — hung over us like a constant shadow. This concept of shame wasn’t just about personal wrongdoing; it was an entire system of social control, especially for girls and women. Every action, every word, every choice was filtered through the lens of “uyat boladi” — “it will be shameful.” Wearing the wrong clothes? Uyat. Laughing too loudly? Uyat. Speaking up against elders? The biggest uyat of all.
In such households, emotions weren’t just discouraged — they were seen as a sign of weakness. We were taught from an early age that a good Qazaq girl should be seen, not heard; should serve, not seek; should endure, not complain. My sister, as the eldest daughter, carried the heaviest burden of these expectations.
The unspoken rule was clear: the family’s reputation rested primarily on the shoulders of its daughters. While boys could stumble and recover, girls walked a tightrope of societal expectations. My sister navigated this complex maze of cultural demands with grace — maintaining perfect grades, learning to cook traditional dishes, keeping the house spotless, all while ensuring her behaviour never invited the dreaded whispers of “uyat” from relatives or neighbours.
She mastered the art of what our culture demanded: being the perfect “tarbieli qyz” — a well-mannered girl. She learned to lower her gaze when men spoke, to serve tea with the right hand, to anticipate needs before they were voiced. These weren’t just habits; they were survival skills in a society where a girl’s worth was measured by her ability to uphold traditional values while simultaneously excelling in modern pursuits.
Even as she shouldered these responsibilities, she was expected to maintain the appearance of effortlessness. Complaining would be uyat. Showing strain would be uyat. Asking for help would be uyat. The post-Soviet era had given women education and career opportunities but hadn’t relieved them of traditional expectations. If anything, it had doubled their burden — they needed to excel both at work and at home, all while maintaining the image of the perfect Qazaq daughter. She cooked for us, helped us with our schoolwork, listened to our stories, and loved us unconditionally — all while our parents was busy working. We admired her deeply, though, in my case, it was often unspoken. I looked up to her as someone who could do “grown-up” things effortlessly.
Older siblings often grow into individuals who are deeply empathic, intuitive, and hyper-aware of the emotional undercurrents around them. They notice what others overlook — parents’ silent grief, unspoken struggles, and any toxic dynamics within the family system. They feel others’ pain acutely, often stepping into the role of emotional caretaker without ever being asked. This was my older sister’s reality
She was admired, yes, but not always seen. I regret never asking if she liked to do this, as if her efforts were taken for granted.
A Sister, A Mother, A Guiding Star
Even after she got married and had her own children, she remained our emotional anchor. She called daily to check on us, always asking how we were doing and offering her love and support. I remember staying with her after the birth of her first child to help with the house chores while her husband worked long hours. She was so appreciative but also felt guilty, as though she was burdening me.
Looking back, I realize how much she continued to carry as an older sister, even in her new role as a wife and mother. She kept her struggles to herself, never wanting us to worry about her. It wasn’t until after she passed that I learned of the heartbreaking burdens she had borne.
A Pain That Lingers
Was it me? Did I fail to make her feel seen, heard, and understood enough for her to share even the smallest of her worries with me? Or was it her emotional parentification, her learned habit of suffering alone? Perhaps it was both.
Regardless, the pain of regret — of not loving her enough, not acknowledging her sacrifices enough, and not listening enough — will likely haunt me and my younger sisters forever.
To the pillar of our family, and a source of endless love and strength.
Even though I couldn’t express it enough while you were here, I hope you knew how deeply you were loved and admired. Your memory will always inspire me to be better, to love more openly, and to never let anyone feel unseen.
You may no longer be with us in this life, but your light continues to guide us. Until we meet again, my dear sister, my guiding star.
