Lately, there’s been some public recognition of “well” siblings like me. I read Isabelle Lee’s recent reflections in The Straits Times and CNA—written by someone much younger, and in a different situation.
Her words struck a chord. Not just because they were honest but because they were familiar. Isabelle’s story reminded me of my own: the emotional silencing, the caregiving expectations, the cultural implications. But she is nineteen and I’m fifty-one.
So, what is it like to be a Glass Child when you’re fifty? Well… think of me as a sage from the future. Growing up with a brother who has schizophrenia, I’ve lived three extra decades inside this narrative.
I became the invisible sibling, swallowing my feelings and needs to not add further stress on the family, was emotionally neglected, built a world outside my family, became perfectionistic, seemingly fine on the outside but carrying occasional feelings of depression and anxiety for most of my adult life.
TL;DR:
At 50, the Glass still reflects.
What remains: Still not being seen. Emotional editing. Caregiver assumptions.
What has changed: Self-recognition. Mental boundaries. Acceptance.
Let’s Just Not Talk About It.
At twenty, you might still hope to be understood—to be seen by your parents. At fifty, you’ve learned that not every battle can be won, and not all are worth fighting. You understand the complexities and limitations, and you’ve learned to live with the consequences.
Most importantly, you’ve learned you have agency.
(Now, that doesn’t mean that we walk through life in a state of Zen. Wounds heal, but the scars remain.)
My mother still doesn’t appear to believe that my experience is valid. Instead, she worries my words blame her—though that is never my intention. “People read your articles and ask why you’re writing such things,” she says, sobbing over how I’ve treated her in the court of public opinion.
Even now, I find myself prioritising her feelings over mine. When I write about my life, I filter it for her reaction. I posted a blog post last year about my father’s death but I couldn’t share it on my socials—because I was afraid she’d read it.
That kind of self-censorship is another kind of loss for the Glass Child. It’s the editing of your own truth to keep someone else from unravelling.
Glass Child at 50. Still Unseen.
This July, there was a bit of a reckoning. During a family meeting about my brother’s future care—with social workers and an aunt present—her desire that I would take the lead, and her disappointment that I was not doing so, was clear. She didn’t need to say it but it was there.
This expectation—despite knowing my brother hates me and that we have not had a relationship for the past thirty years. Never mind the struggles of being the “invisible sibling.”
And I saw it clearly: she will never see me. She may never be able, or even willing, to try.
With everything I’ve learned about tending to my mental health, stepping into the role of the primary caregiver is simply not possible for me. I help where I can. But it’s not enough. And so I am seen as the one who doesn’t care—the one failing to fulfill her duties to both mother and brother.
But I knew I had to strengthen my boundaries. My internal boundaries had to be fortified so that I would not spend every minute of my time processing and worrying about what other people thought.
Eventually, my husband and I tried expressing just how I have been feeling (again)—our one last attempt to make her see me. We hoped she might hear why I was upset. Maybe even begin to understand.
Did it work? No. Instead, it cemented the feeling of invisibility that I’ve carried all my life.
Well, if I were to look on the bright side, this final acceptance has liberated me.
Caregiving Expectations in Asian Families.
In many Asian families, caregiving isn’t just expected—it’s assumed. Especially for daughters, and the “well sibling,” whose emotional needs are often deprioritised in favour of duty.
But, that’s the concern we all carry—willingly or not—the looming reality of future caregiving for our sibling. At twenty, it may not be on your radar. But as our parents age, and we cross into our thirties and forties, believe me, that question grows louder: What happens next?
It’s a responsibility we may not have asked for but can’t ignore. And frankly, many of us are already carrying the weight—our own health concerns, demanding careers, children to raise, dreams postponed. Still, the expectation lingers.
We’re often unclear about what caregiving would even entail. What are the needs, the options, the costs, the crises?
For siblings across the globe, this not knowing is among the greatest fears. And it’s not just anecdotal—research echoes it. Uncertainty is both a psychological burden and a practical barrier to readiness.
No one walks us through the specifics, so we can’t say how much we can realistically help. And because we’re rarely involved early on, our fears and constraints go unheard.
Then comes the labyrinth of support systems—government agencies, fragmented services, eligibility criteria we’re learning on the fly. Often, it is a landscape built for crisis; at least that is the direction my family is heading towards.
And this reality becomes even more fraught when parents refuse to plan—out of denial, or fear, or hope that someone else will sort it out. Often, that someone is us.
Support for Adult Glass Children.
In adult Sibling support groups I’ve attended, most conversations centre on logistics: future caregiving plans, medical decisions, financial considerations. Rarely do we talk about how decades of self-erasure have shaped our identities. Even in “safe” spaces, our emotional truths are often an afterthought.
But I am advocating for a shift.
Include Siblings early on in care dialogues. Not to slot us into pre-made roles or pressure us into caregiving but to understand our emotional landscape, our fears, our boundaries, and the weight we already carry. Let us be seen not just as caretakers or proxies, but as people.
And fellow Sibs—when we meet, let’s tell the truth.
Let’s speak of our fears.
Our fatigue.
The dreams we’ve put on hold.
The lives we still want to live.
See ourselves.
At 50, I have reclaimed my voice. Over to you.
Being a glass child at fifty means I’ve felt the exhaustion of constant accommodation—before I even knew that’s what it was.
It also means that I’ve spent time learning how to recognise, accept and work on my suppressed feelings. And while the role still echoes inside me, I no longer respond out of reflex. I respond on my terms.
To the glass children who are coming of age—or coming to awareness—I say: it’s not too late. Your story isn’t a sidenote. It’s your story. And it deserves to be told without apology.
If this resonates, do share your thoughts in the comments below. And if you know someone who would be keen to read this, I’d be honoured if you passed it along. Thank you.
