Aimless Orbit

Hey Drifter,

You ever look around and realize that no one’s really watching you, but somehow… everyone still expects something from you? That’s the life of a middle child. Not quite the oldest. Not the baby. Just… placed. Positioned. Expected. Forgotten.

When people hear Middle Child Syndrome, they often roll their eyes, expecting a cliché. The dramatic one. The rebellious one. The one screaming for attention. But how many of them ever pause to ask what that actually feels like?

For me, that phrase—middle child—carries the weight of one word: independence.

I know I couldn’t be who I am today without my parents, but the blueprint of my personality? It was carved out in solitude. I figured things out on my own—not because I wanted to, but because nobody really asked if I needed help. I became my own answer key. The one scribbled in pencil, constantly erased and rewritten—until I decided my survival depended on circling an answer, even if no one ever checked it.

My role? Ever-changing. I wore what was missing. Rebel? Yeah, sometimes. But also peacemaker. Therapist. Family glue. Whatever needed filling, I poured myself into it, even if it left me drained.

When I did something “right,” I got praise in the moment—but never the replay. Never the echo. And maybe that’s because I’ve always felt like I had more failures than wins. Or maybe because when your older sibling’s milestones run parallel to yours, yours just end up feeling… dimmer.

But here’s where it gets complicated—emotionally.

I didn’t feel dismissed all the time. I just didn’t feel like there was room for my feelings. So I learned to tuck them in. I only showed enough to satisfy whoever asked. I smiled when I needed to. Laughed on cue. Said I was fine even when I wasn’t. And after a while… I stopped even telling myself the truth.

And the guilt? Whew.

I felt guilty for feeling invisible, because I had so much to be grateful for. Guilty for craving hugs and kisses when I had clothes and a bed. Guilty for wanting more affection when my mom was giving all she had.

So I stayed silent. And that silence grew roots.

It wasn’t just family—it bled into friendships and relationships. I became emotionally closed off. Detached. And yet, so damn desperate to be seen.

That desperation made me a validation seeker. Like when I’d pour my heart into an essay or a project and still linger after class just to hear the words, “You did good.” Even when I knew I had. I just needed someone else to say it—needed proof that I mattered outside of my own echo chamber. Like their voice made it real.

And when someone did give me that love? That attention? I’d cling. Compromise. Shrink myself just to fit into what they needed. And when things felt too real, or too fragile—I’d ghost. Detach. Vanish like I was never there.

I remember the depression that crept in during 10th and 11th grade—after a trauma I won’t unpack here yet. I told a teacher I was afraid I might hurt myself. My mom and grandma came, but I was already shut back down by the time they got there. They backed off. Because in our family, “I’m okay” means the conversation ends.

I went to therapy. Group therapy, too. It helped… until it stopped. And when it stopped, I fell. Hard. Skipping school. Losing energy. Not suicidal—but gone. And even then, what came back wasn’t help—it was punishment.

That’s the part that still stings.

Not the consequences. But the lack of curiosity about what I was really going through.

Like—no one thought to lean in closer? No one wondered why my smile felt taped on, or why my energy dropped before the sun even rose? That silence wasn’t peace. It was me, screaming under a blanket of “I’m fine.”

Being a middle child taught me loyalty—to myself. No one’s got me like I do. I’ve learned to take leaps without knowing where I’ll land. To trust that even if no one claps for me, my steps still matter.

I’m still working on the validation thing. Still learning that the echo I’m waiting to hear might have to come from me.

But if there’s one thing I’d tell younger me?

Don’t get swallowed in the independence. You’re just a little girl. You’re not supposed to have all the answers. Speak up. Cry. Ask for help. Say what hurts. You can be grateful and still wish for more.

To any drifter out there who feels like the middle child in their own story: You are not the silence in between. You are the voice that’s been learning how to echo back.

Keep going. Your spotlight might look different—but damn, when it hits… it’ll be yours.

So let me ask you this, Drifter—what role did you play growing up, and have you ever asked yourself if it was truly yours to play?