Growing up, my life was a to-do list. From school clubs to volunteering at NGOs, and later interning at radio stations, my days were built around checklists, deadlines, and goals.

Every task was a challenge, and every obstacle a hurdle to be cleared. With time, that was the only route I understood and followed, leaving no room for fresh air, and deleting the word “rest” from my dictionary. It was that or nothing. 

In many African households, the first daughter, upon birth, is naturally given the mantle of a second mother and is expected to lead and direct her younger siblings, guiding them in the right direction. It was a role that came less with a crown and more with a relentless stopwatch, fueled by an insatiable drive to succeed and make sure everyone around did, too. 

Hence, when my younger sister entered college, I strapped on the captain’s seat, seized the controls, and began navigating her life’s trajectory, ensuring a smooth flight plan for her future. My mission was clear: no stone was to be left unturned to provide her with a clear career path and distinguish her from her peers. This translated into: internship opportunities as WhatsApp greetings, daily emails of paid and free conference tickets, connecting her to my network, and pushing her to create an online presence. 

Left to me, I was doing the right thing and deserved a sash for being the best sister in the world. Right? 

I would soon find out how wrong I was. 

The realisation came after another morning of “advice” over the phone, nudging her to stop slacking and finally create an online presence. While I wasn’t expecting kisses for the reminder, nothing prepared me for her outburst. Her text read: “You act as if anyone walking is wasting their life. I don’t think what you do is pushing me, it’s more like you are constantly invalidating my entirely different pace and definition of success.” A pause. Then a typing indicator and a few seconds later, another message dropped: “I’m pursuing so many things at the same time, and you still want me to do more. I’m exhausted and overwhelmed. I need a break.” With that, she went offline. 

I waited for the spirit of anger for not being appreciated to consume me. For it to whisper hotly into my ears. To tell myself I had done my best and that her response was unfair. But…it didn’t come. Instead, I sat with my phone in my hands, rereading her words. The urgency I had carried for so long softened and in its place, unfamiliar silence. 

For the first time, I heard what I have been refusing to listen to. In my attempt to guide her, I had stopped seeing her as my sister and more like a project. 

With this knowledge, I knew I needed to start on a fresh slate. The following weekend when I knew she had no class, I called my sister, my voice unfamiliar. “I have been thinking of what you said, and I’m sorry.” I thought she wasn’t going to respond, but then she mumbled, “No problem.” Another silence, “I know you care about me, but can you just let me stick to one thing?” I mused over the statement and simply said, “Just know I’m here whenever you need me.” Silence from her end and just when I thought she wasn’t going to answer, “Okay, that’s fine.” 

That conversation, albeit slowly, started mending our relationship. I stopped asking her about internships, skills, and next steps. I stopped managing her future and just let her…be. We talked about movies, and outfits. At first, my body felt like it had worms crawling all over it. But I adjusted. 

Over time, something beautiful happened. She began to share her goals with me when she was ready. She asked for advice on her own terms, and happily, I gave it. Recently, she sent me a long epistle on how inspired she was by me. My happy self did a little back flip (in my head) at the news. 

That experience changed how I saw success. 

As Black women, especially first daughters, we are often taught that love means sacrifice, pressure, and constant motion. We learn to care by pushing, to lead by controlling, and to measure worth by productivity. But I’m learning that Black joy is also slowing down and appreciating the profound beauty of every path and just giving my support all the way.

Not everyone needs to sprint. Some people walk. Some pause. And all of those places are valid. Sometimes the kindest thing we can do for people we love is to walk beside them—quietly and peacefully and with joy.