Am I being dramatic?

Sometimes I feel like I grew up too early, like the world placed responsibilities on my shoulders long before I even understood what childhood was supposed to feel like. I wake up every day already carrying a weight — chores, studying, coaching, expectations, silence, pressure — a cycle that repeats even on Saturdays, the one day meant for rest. Morning coaching, evening coaching, sixteen hours of study, and the endless responsibilities at home… it all mixes together into a kind of exhaustion that feels older than my age. Even when I do everything right, it’s still never enough. I’m still too slow, too small, too late, too imperfect. It feels like no matter how hard I try, someone is always disappointed in me.

And yet, outside of all this work, the hardest part is the emotional loneliness. I’ve grown up in a home where my guardian’s anger, stress, and trauma sometimes fell directly on me. I know why she acted that way. I know the pressure she felt. I know my grandfather has his own battles — old wounds, a soldier’s memories, maybe PTSD — and his high blood pressure only makes everything more explosive. But knowing the reason doesn’t make the hurt disappear. It still shaped me, even if I don’t want to admit it.

I was around eight or nine when everything started changing. My aunt left for another country, and my guardian was suddenly overwhelmed and alone, and all of her emotions spilled onto me. I didn’t understand it then; I only felt the fear, the confusion, and the feeling of being everyone’s emotional trash bin. I wasn’t protected — except sometimes by my grandmother — and even then, only sometimes. I learned to stay quiet, to swallow feelings, to avoid getting hit, to avoid getting yelled at. Even talking back was considered disrespectful. My own thoughts weren’t allowed. My own frustrations weren’t allowed.

Because of all that, I grew up learning to hold everything inside. And now, as a teenager, I see how those childhood wounds still live in me. Whenever something bad happens, old memories rush back and blend with the present. Whenever I’m sad, the painful parts of my life come back all at once. Whenever I’m happy, trauma still finds a way to touch the moment. I once thought maybe I had depression — but I didn’t want to accept it. Even when professional tests showed symptoms, I still tried to ignore it, telling myself that it didn’t matter, that I could fix things alone.

And yet, even with all of this happening inside me, I still carry one huge responsibility: my sister.

She is the one person I protect fiercely, the one I defend even if my own friends say something bad about her. I act like her second parent, her guide, her teacher, her best friend, and sometimes even her whole world — because that’s what I had to become. Her mistakes feel like my responsibility. Her behavior feels like something I must correct. Her happiness feels like something I must create.

With her, my emotions are complicated. I love her deeply — more than I show. I tease her like a sibling, challenge her with games, laugh with her, push her to study gently, and encourage her with rewards and fun promises. I let her talk back because I want her to learn how to express herself freely, unlike me when I was little. I want her to grow up with confidence and the ability to speak her mind. I want her to have the childhood I never had — full of play, imagination, studying with joy, and feeling safe to express feelings.

But I also have moments I am not proud of. When I get angry — truly angry — it feels like something switches inside me and I lose control in the heat of the emotion. I can see what I’m doing, but it feels like I can’t stop my anger from bursting out. I scold her harshly. Sometimes I slap her or yell, and afterward the guilt hits me so hard because I know what it feels like to be hurt by the people you depend on. I don’t want to become that person, the one I was scared of growing up. I don’t want to carry the trauma forward into the next generation. I know it’s wrong, but at least I’m aware — painfully aware — and I’m trying every single day to break the cycle. I give her space when she needs it. I apologize when I have crossed a line. I reflect on my own actions constantly and try to make tomorrow better.

And in small moments, I do succeed.

The teasing and challenges.

The laughing.

The running games.

The “escape in 10 seconds” countdown.

The soft motivations.

The playful “I’ll eat your food if you don’t eat fast.”

The defending her from anyone — friend or stranger — who tries to bully her.

It’s not perfect love, but it’s real love.

Still, even with all of this, I sometimes feel crushed by elder-sister guilt. I feel like everything she does reflects me, like her actions are my fault, like I must ensure she becomes the person I never had the chance to be. I want her to grow up healthy, joyful, strong, outspoken, and loved. And while trying to give her the world, I forget that I, too, am still a child in many ways — a child who had to grow up too fast.

My relationships with my family feel fragile. There are people I love, but I cannot talk to them without feeling judged or misunderstood. People assume things, blame things on me, or stay silent when I need them most. Even my father and my older brother-like cousin stay quiet when I am blamed, making me feel abandoned in moments when I need support. It hurts, because I trusted them to understand me more.

Sometimes I wish I had been born into a different family — one that was emotionally healthy, stable, supportive, gentle. One where children were allowed to be children. One where grandparents were soft and warm like the ones I see in Western movies. But wishing doesn’t change anything.

So I continue.

I continue carrying the responsibilities.

I continue loving my sister.

I continue trying to heal the child inside me.

I continue fighting against the parts of myself shaped by trauma.

I continue trying to break cycles and build better ones.

I continue even when it feels hopeless.

I continue because that’s the only choice I have learned.

And even though I often feel alone, confused, tired, guilty, protective, angry, loving, caring, overwhelmed — all at once — I still try to understand myself every day. Because maybe, just maybe, one day I will find the freedom I dream of, the peace I imagine, and the version of myself that isn’t drowni

ng under pressure, but finally breathing.