What it means to be a Glass Child at 50

Lately, there’s been some public recognition of the Glass Child, a term often used to describe a child who has had to grow up with a sibling whose illness, disability, developmental issue or high-attention need requires more parental attention thus leaving them without the care that would have ordinarily gone to them. I read Isabelle Lee’s recent reflections in The Straits Times and CNA—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 19 and I’m 51.

So, what is it like to be a Glass Child when you’re 50? 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 so as 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 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.
It’s not closure—it’s clarity.

Let’s Just Not Talk About It.

At 20, you might still hope to be understood—to be seen by your parents.
At 50, 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.

It 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 my experience is valid. Instead, she worries my words blame her—though they never have.
“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, something shifted. During a family meeting about my brother’s future care—with social workers and an aunt present—her desire and expectation that I would take the lead was clear. She didn’t need to say it. Her tears carried the message.

This, despite knowing my brother hates me—and that we have not had a relationship for the past thirty years. Never mind the quiet, cumulative struggles of being the “well 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—and quickly. My own 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 again—our one last attempt to make her see me.

We hoped she might hear why I was upset.
See the patterns that shaped our fractured relationship.
Maybe even begin to understand.

Did it work? No. Instead, it cemented the feeling of invisibility that I’ve carried all my life.

And 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.
Just disappear quietly into service.

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, that question grows louder:
What happens next? Who carries the load?

It’s a responsibility we may not have asked for but can’t ignore.
And the truth is: many of us are already carrying 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.

Subhead: 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 well 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. Help us find clarity in a situation not built with us in mind.

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.

At 50, I have reclaimed my voice. Over to you.

Being a glass child at 50 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.

It means I’ve learned to say: I matter.

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.

You are not too much.
Your story isn’t a sidenote.
It’s not indulgent. It’s not inconvenient.

It’s your story.
And it deserves to be told without apology.

About the author: Yasmeen @lifeofyasmeenhc shares raw, personal insights on mental well-being through her speaking engagements and blog, Not a Pretty Picture. She is currently completing her memoir about growing up as the invisible sibling of a high needs individual.