I Wasn’t the Favorite Child — I Was the Investment.

The invisible weight of being your family’s plan A, B, and C.

There’s a quiet kind of pain that comes from being more than just a child in your family. It’s a pain rooted in expectations so heavy they crush your spirit before you even realize the burden you carry.

They don’t say it aloud. Sometimes they don’t even realize themselves. But the moment you start showing promise — maybe you speak English better than your siblings, maybe you come first in class, maybe you stay out of trouble — you stop being just a person. You become a project.

The “smart one.” “The obedient one.” The one who will “make it” and prove that your family wasn’t a failure. The one that will prove your parents didn’t make too many mistakes. That the generational hardship, poverty, and struggle will end with you — or at least become something that looks better in your hands.

This is the invisible role of the golden child turned family investment. It’s not about love, not really. It’s about hope. It’s about what you represent to a family desperate for redemption. You’re not just living your own life. You’re carrying the dreams, regrets, and unfinished business of those who came before you — all piled onto your small shoulders like a backpack filled with stones.

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They see your life as their do-over and that’s when the pressure becomes suffocating. When you say you’re tired, it sounds like you’re ungrateful. When you admit confusion or doubts, you’re seen as unserious. When you dare to choose differently — maybe study a subject your family doesn’t understand, or pursue a career they didn’t expect — you’re accused of forgetting your roots.

They want you to be a symbol of success, a trophy to brandish in front of extended family and neighbors. But they don’t see the cost. The emotional toll. The soul-crushing weight of carrying everyone’s expectations while trying to figure out who you are beneath the “investment.”

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In Nigeria, this pressure wears the mask of pride. It’s wrapped in familiar phrases:

“You’re the first in the family to go to university.”

“You’re our only hope.”

“You’ll take this family out of poverty.”

At first, it feels good. The praise, the attention, the way aunties and uncles beam when they talk about you. You begin to crave excellence, to chase perfection, to perform because the applause feels like survival.

But slowly, that shine begins to dull. Because once you’re the golden child, breaking down isn’t allowed. Rest isn’t a luxury you can afford. Failure isn’t an option. You become the family’s public relations officer — fixing messes you didn’t create, hiding shame you didn’t cause, sending money you barely have.

You write CVs for cousins, pay rent for relatives, give pep talks to grown adults while your own world feels like it’s unraveling. When you complain, you hear the same words again and again:

“So who else will help us?”

“You’re the one God blessed.”

Translation? “You’re the one who must fix the mess because we didn’t.”

“You don’t get to live for yourself.”

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And the guilt? Oh, the guilt is soul crushing.

Want to move abroad? Selfish.

Want to stop paying black tax? Ungrateful.

Want to cut toxic family members off? Wicked.

Even your dreams get filtered through the lens of family expectations.

They want you to be a lawyer, a doctor, a wife, a savior.

But what about what you want?

Desire becomes a luxury you’re not allowed to afford.

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But what if you fail?

What if you don’t become rich?

What if you’re the one who needs help?

Will they still love you?

Or will you become another family disappointment, another cautionary tale passed around with pity and scorn?

The truth is the “golden child” only shines when producing.

The moment you stop, the applause dies — and suddenly, you don’t exist.

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What if you don’t want to save anybody?

What if the weight of generational redemption is too heavy for one person to carry?

What if you’re just a human being who deserves rest, softness, mistakes, and freedom?

Because no matter how much you do, it will never be enough for people who never learned to take responsibility for their own lives.

You are not your parents’ second chance.

You are not your family’s image rehabilitation campaign.

You are not a product to be showcased.

You are a person. And that should be enough.

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You deserve to be loved for you— not for what you can fix, provide, or prove.

You deserve to fail, to rest, to say no.

You deserve to exist on your own terms.

And sometimes, the bravest act of all is to finally stop carrying what was never yours to bear.