I never planned to become the backbone of my family. It happened slowly, almost silently—like water rising while you’re still learning how to swim. One moment I was celebrating my first breakthrough as a freelancer; the next, I was the person everyone called when life punched a hole through their plans.

At first, it felt good—noble, even. You grow up imagining that when your time comes, you’ll lift the whole family with you. That’s what we’re taught, right? “Ukifanikiwa, usisahau nyumbani.” So when my younger brother needed help with his college application fee, I sent it without blinking. When my mother’s clinic balance doubled unexpectedly, I handled it. When my uncle’s small shop in Naivasha was destroyed during a night storm, I wired him something to rebuild. These things felt right. Almost fulfilling. But as they say, responsibility doesn’t knock. It just walks in and sits on your chest.

The calls started changing.

No one asked how I was doing anymore. They asked whether I could “sort something small,” even though that “small” almost always came at the wrong time—days when I was juggling deadlines, pitching editors, fighting late invoices, or calculating rent against projects that hadn’t yet matured into money.

There’s a night I still remember vividly. I was sitting in my one-bedroom apartment in Nairobi, laptop open, trying to finish a story for a client who had already pushed my payment twice. Midnight had just passed when my phone rang. I debated ignoring it, but guilt won as usual.
It was my cousin. He needed fees by morning or he’d be kicked out of the hostel. I paused. My bank app was already red. But he was family. I stayed quiet for a moment, then said I’d handle it. After the call, I stared at my ceiling and felt something shift inside me. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t sadness. It was the realization that I was becoming a walking emergency room.

Nobody tells you that being the “successful one” comes with a silent tax—one that takes your time, your peace, your financial stability, and sometimes your sense of self. And the worst part is that you can’t complain. How do you tell your family “I’m struggling,” when, to them, you’re the one who made it?

Success stops being a celebration and becomes a performance.

People see your wins, but not the sacrifices behind them. They see the results, never the breakdowns. They see the opportunities, never the nights you fought burnout while pretending everything was under control. At some point, I started lying—“I’m fine,” “Work is good,” “I’m managing”—even when I was scraping by to meet both my obligations and theirs.

I realized the weight I was carrying when I found myself budgeting in reverse: calculating everybody else’s needs first, then figuring out how to survive on what was left. That’s when the guilt became a shadow—following me into every decision. Say no, and you feel selfish. Say yes, and you slowly drown.

Yet the story isn’t just about struggle. It’s about the contradictions that shape us.

Because for every moment I felt exhausted, I also felt grateful. I knew where we came from. I knew the sacrifices that built me. I knew how many people had tightened their belts for me to go to school, to chase writing, to stand on my own feet. So a part of me felt indebted—not out of pressure, but out of love and memory.

But love doesn’t erase exhaustion.

The breaking point came one afternoon when my younger sister called crying. She needed money for a school project. I wanted to help; I really did. But for the first time, I genuinely couldn’t. My account balance mocked me. I told her I would try later.
She whispered a quiet “Okay,” and hung up.

That call stayed with me for weeks. It forced me to confront a truth I had been avoiding: I couldn’t save everyone if saving them meant losing myself. I needed boundaries—not walls, just boundaries strong enough to protect my sanity while still holding the people I love.

Being the successful one isn’t heroic. It’s complicated. It’s stressful. It’s beautiful in certain moments and devastating in others. You carry pride and pressure in the same breath. You lift people, sometimes while your own legs are shaking.

But I’ve learned something important:

• You can support your family without becoming their lifeline.
• You can love them without sacrificing your entire future.
• You can carry the weight—but not alone, and not at the cost of everything you are.

And maybe that’s the real story: not the success itself, but the courage it takes to rewrite the role success forces on you. To set boundaries. To breathe. To grow without guilt. I’m still learning. Still adjusting. Still balancing the past I honour and the future I’m building.
But now, when the phone rings, I answer with love—yes—but also with truth. Because the cost of being the successful one is real. But so is the right to choose how much of that cost you continue to pay.