The Red Thread

— When You’re the Glass Child

I was always the okay one.

Not in a particularly noble or heroic way. I wasn’t volunteering to carry everyone’s emotional baggage out of some inner strength. I just… did. It was what the room asked of me. And honestly, for a long time, I thought that was normal. I thought it was love.

If you’ve never heard the term “glass child,” it refers to a sibling of someone with a serious illness or disability — physical or mental. Someone who’s seen through, unintentionally, because all eyes and energy go to the one who needs it most. It’s not meant to be cruel. It just happens. And you become good at staying out of the way. At swallowing things. At smiling when you’d rather disappear.

When your sibling is unwell — when their world is full of therapy appointments, crisis plans, exhausted parents, and unpredictability — there’s no room for your sadness to echo. You learn that any emotional expression you have must be measured. Rational. Quiet. Manageable.

Because someone has to be.

And so, you become the stable one. The responsible one. The peacekeeper. The one who doesn’t need to be checked on. The one who doesn’t cry at the dinner table or throw things in the middle of the night. The one who only has small, tidy needs. You tell yourself that being okay is your role. You start to wear it like armor.

But armor gets heavy.

There are days when your own pain gets tangled in your chest — but you can’t voice it without guilt. How can you feel low when someone else’s suffering seems louder, more urgent, more “real”? You don’t want to be another problem in the room. So instead, you fold yourself down into something smaller, something easier. You perform okay-ness like it’s a job.

But here’s the truth I’m still learning: Just because you’re not bleeding loudly doesn’t mean you aren’t hurting.

I used to wait for someone to ask — really ask — if I was okay. Not the casual “you good?” in passing, but the kind that sits with you. That waits for the pause. That looks you in the eye and gives you permission to not be fine. But those moments are rare when you’re the “easy” child. The capable one. The one who doesn’t cause trouble.

So now, I’m learning how to give myself that pause. How to not apologize for my own struggles, even if someone else’s seem bigger or more dramatic. I’m learning that there’s no prize for disappearing gracefully. That strength isn’t about silence. That needing support doesn’t make me selfish — it makes me human.

If you’ve lived in the shadow of someone else’s chaos, I see you. If you’ve felt guilty for needing help because someone else needed more, I hear you. And if you’ve built your entire identity around being “fine” — I’m telling you now: You don’t have to be.

It’s okay to need space. It’s okay to cry loudly. It’s okay to ask for something just because you need it.

Being the glass child doesn’t mean you’re unbreakable. It just means you’ve learned to crack in silence.

But you don’t have to anymore.