Cristel's journey of redefining the eldest daughter story

There is a term that has been floating around on social media called "The Eldest Daughter Syndrome". It’s that quiet pressure to always lead, to be responsible, and to set an example for everyone else. I never had a name for it before, but looking back, I realise I’ve lived with it my whole life.
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Growing up in the Philippines, I often saw the men in my family head out to work, while the women stayed home. It was the way things were. But my parents, two of the hardest working people I know, had a different vision for their children. Eventually, at the age of 12, I had to leave home to study. I moved to a different city on my own, with my mother visiting only on the weekends. It was my first real taste of independence, and by the time I graduated from university, I was fully on my own, working, managing my life and figuring things out as I went.
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Then came the opportunity that changed everything.
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Dubai, 2017. At the age of 25, I packed my life into a suitcase and landed in a city where I didn’t know a single person. My parents were worried, and honestly, so was I. I remember thinking, “How will I even fit in here? Will I ever feel at home?”. I had already spent years learning how to navigate life alone, but there’s something about stepping into the unknown that no amount of preparation can take away. If you’ve ever moved to a new country, you know the feeling; the mix of excitement and fear, the overwhelming need to prove to yourself that you made the right choice.
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The job was fast-paced, high-pressure, and the learning curve was vertical. Some days, I thrived. Other days, I survived.
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Then, four years in, something unexpected happened. While pitching to a potential customer, I was offered a job instead. That customer was Parthi, the CEO of Alaan. Our conversation convinced me to take yet another leap of faith. I joined Alaan as an Account Executive. Today, I lead the Sales Team. Managing a team brought a new kind of pressure. It wasn’t about performance anymore, it was also about people. About showing up and being someone others could look up to. I didn’t always know how to offer support, or how to lead with both empathy and clarity. I had to learn that along the way.
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And then, one afternoon, not during a big win, not after a career milestone, but during something as ordinary as selling my first car, it hit me how far I had come.
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I was there in the driver’s seat of the car that had carried me through it all. That car that had seen the loneliest versions of me, the most hopeful, the most unsure. I’d outgrown it, just like I had outgrown so many old versions of myself.
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Then, an old song came on the radio. One I hadn’t heard since the early Dubai days. I didn’t expect it to hit me the way it did. But suddenly, I was right back in those early days. The shared apartment, the late-night calls home, the constant self-doubt, and the small wins that often went unnoticed.
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And all of a sudden there were tears. Right there, in the car, I let myself feel it. I felt the gratitude, the grief and the gentle ache of remembering how hard I had tried. It hit me in waves, the way growth often does. Not with applause, but with stillness. The kind that forces you to sit with yourself. And I realised, I wasn’t just saying goodbye to a car. I was mourning the girl who carried me here. Mourning the version of me that used to stretch every dirham, double-check Google Maps, practice confidence in the mirror before meetings. She did the hard parts so I could be here. I mourned, not out of pity, but out of gratitude. No one tells you this, but growing into yourself sometimes feels like a quiet goodbye to the person who got you through the early days. And yet, somehow, that’s the beauty of it too.
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And maybe that’s the thing about certain milestones, they don’t arrive with fireworks. They show up quietly, disguised as responsibility. You don’t pause. You don’t celebrate. Because somewhere deep down, it never felt optional. It felt like something you owed, to, your family, your younger self, and the sacrifices made along the way. But maybe it’s time to see it differently. Maybe the things that felt like duty, the quiet battles no one saw, the resilience no one applauded, those are the moments most worthy of celebration. Not because the world didn't notice, but because you did them anyway.