The Eldest: NO GRACE TO FALL OR FLATER part 2

He didn’t tell anyone at first.How do you confess exhaustion when everyone’s still sipping from your cup? But something had shifted in Tayo. The silence no longer comforted him. It no longer felt noble or necessary. It just felt lonely. So he started small. He didn’t pick up the phone when his sister called that night. He texted instead: “Can I call you tomorrow? I need some rest.”He expected guilt. Maybe frustration. Instead, she replied: “Of course. Love you.”Strange.He missed his mother’s call one afternoon. Normally, he’d call back in minutes. This time, he waited a day. When he did return the call, she said softly, “I was just worried. You always call back so fast.”There was a pause.He hesitated, then said, “I’ve been tired, Ma.”Another pause. Then:“You don’t have to carry everything, Tayo.”It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t even advice. It was just the truth, and hearing it broke something gently in him.In the weeks that followed, Tayo began to take up space in his own life. He saw a therapist. Walked into the room feeling fraudulent, like someone pretending to be broken. But as he spoke, the words came easily, decades of restraint finally finding air.He cried.He talked about being six years old and watching his father slam the door after an argument, and how he hugged his mother tight because he thought that’s what men do. He talked about the guilt of success, of being the “one who made it” while his younger brother still stumbled. He talked about how even joy felt like a job, how even laughter was something he gave others more than felt himself.And slowly, he learned to fall without fear. He started saying “no” without apology. He asked for help. He let silence exist without always having to fix it. And he realized maybe being the eldest wasn’t about being the strongest.Maybe it was about being honest. Maybe it was about showing his younger siblings that resilience wasn’t perfection, it was permission. To cry. To rest. To feel deeply and still rise again. And one evening, after a long walk under a slow sunset, he called his little brother. “How’s it going?” the familiar voice asked.“I’m... figuring it out,” Tayo replied, with a small laugh. “I’ve been trying to be everyone’s net, but I think I forgot to build one for myself.”His brother was quiet a moment, then said, “You don’t always have to catch us. Sometimes we’re okay with falling a bit. Sometimes we want to catch you.”Tayo didn’t answer right away.But for the first time in years, he felt light. Because maybe strength wasn’t in how much you held, but in knowing when to let go.

Other insights from Ezecyril Cyril Ogbonnia