A First-Born Daughter’s Story Of Chronic Stress, Financial Manipulation, And Choosing Herself For The First Time

I have hid this story in my body for so long, but I can’t any further or I will explode and die.

Growing up as the second mother of the house, I was groomed to believe that being productive 24/7 was my identity. Anything less was laziness. From fetching water streets away to sweeping and mopping every inch of the house, even with siblings old enough to help but were told not to because I was the Ada and that was my responsibility. I was the one doing it all. Ada must not stress her younger siblings.

Every errand, every chore, every family need, it was on me. I became the chief therapist to my mother, who was barely hanging on due to PTSD from childbirth and marital stress. My own needs? Unmet. Did I even have needs? I eventually stopped expecting anything. I wasn’t seen as a child. I was a glorified slave.

Productivity Wasn’t Just What I Did; It Was Who I Was

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As a teenager, I kept going. I got a job a week after writing WAEC. Then another job a month later. Then another. My father started to raise eyebrows, not just out of parental concern, but because I was no longer as available for free domestic labor. My skills had begun to earn me money. And soon, I became the third provider in the household. I paid school fees, funded new trades for my siblings, put food on the table, and funded renovations for the house. A house I never lived in because I moved out of the old one when I became the punching bag for parents who couldn’t bring themselves to admit that they were frustrated with their marriage. And I have never heard the last of it ever since because my father likened women who lived outside of their parents’ homes to whores, knowing fully well the unsafe conditions that influenced my decision to step out.

I poured myself out like water. And somewhere along the line, I stopped being a daughter.
I became an ATM.

The first time this hit me was when my mother made a disappointed comment after I sent her money. The amount wasn’t “good enough” because I had previously sent more. That moment tore something in me. I felt used. Worthless. Unloved. I realized then that no one truly had my back but me. But of course, the cycle didn’t stop.

I Performed for Love Until It Made Me Sick

I soon entered the entertainment industry, first as a writer, then producer, then actress, and I found myself working with companies that thrived on high productivity. So I thrived too. I quickly became a trusted producer bringing projects and people together, getting things done, never dropping the ball. I was everyone’s favorite professional people-pleaser. High energy. Never losing my cool (except once or twice when my patience was really tested.) Always delivering. Someone I didn’t work with directly at the office once commented that I was “the hardest working person he knew,” because I would leave the office last. And the more I earned, the more I gave at home. But when I couldn’t send money because I had rent, groceries, my own bills, my mother came at me like I had committed a crime. I was called names: “black sheep,” “disrespectful child,” “prodigal daughter.”

“She acted like she almost regretted giving birth to me. All because I wasn’t in the financial position to support her at the time.”

My father, when he was alive, never treated me that way. He was embarrassed when I offered help. He would tell me about his projects and I always felt drawn to contribute. Not out of needing to be loved, but my own way of appreciating his efforts and wanting things to be easier for him. He didn’t feel entitled. But my mother? She believed it was her right. I was barely out of my teens and writing JAMB to get into university. I was a provider of a household at 15 years of age. My education suffered. My dreams were delayed. And never for once did my mother ask how school was going. She didn’t see me. She saw a source of income. A means to an end.

She even turned my siblings against me, painting me as the selfish one who had abandoned her family. The one God had blessed with money who refused to share it, even though I always helped when it was requested and a lot of times, before. There is a long list of ways I have added value to others, to them, before myself, but they will never see that. I kept working, not just to support them, but to mentally escape the pain of not being truly loved or accepted. I poured myself into work, trying to be useful to bosses, colleagues, and clients who appreciated my talent and drive, but never really saw me.

Meanwhile, my body was screaming. Crashing. Begging me to stop. I had unmet needs piled up so high, they were suffocating me.

Earning Love Through Suffering Was The Order of my Day

I needed love. Real love. And I wasn’t getting it. Not at home. Not at work. Not in my friendships, many of which were one-sided and manipulative. I was drowning in neglect, and I didn’t know how to come up for air. Add to that the religious guilt. I grew up in a devout but deeply ignorant household. I thought I had to be pure, responsible, and productive to be loved by God. When I “failed” or sinned, I’d cry myself to sleep on the bathroom floor, in the dark, cockroach nearby, no longer flinching. Just numb.

When my father died, the family fractured. No one cared about unity. But the expectations to provide? They remained. My sister stood firmly with my mother. I regret ever leaving Dubai in 2017. I should’ve stayed. I came back to Nigeria and worked like a lab rat to provide for a family who didn’t even flinch when I was physically assaulted by a cab driver in early 2024. But with every ounce of pain, I worked harder. I attracted toxic bosses who mirrored my family’s dysfunction, and they made my life hell. Eventually, I snapped. I threw myself down a flight of stairs. I overdosed on pills. Not because I wanted to die, but because I wanted it to stop. I was tired of performing. Of having no control. My body was revolting, and so was my soul.

And my period disappeared for months. Then came back. Then disappeared again. I thought nothing of it because I wasn’t sexually active. But when I bled for eight weeks non-stop heavily and painfully, I panicked. What if I had a disease? What if I was pregnant and bleeding out a baby I didn’t know existed? (I wasn’t.) The large blood clots terrified me.

I Had Become The Woman With The Issue Of Blood

After tests and hospital visits, I was diagnosed with PCOS and Endometrial Hyperplasia. I wasn’t shocked. My body had kept the score. Years of toxic productivity, stress, and neglect had all landed here, in my womb. My body had tried to save me the only way it knew how by shutting down.

I cried for days. The bleeding wouldn’t stop. Tranexamic Acid worked the first time, but the second time around it didn’t. I was dizzy. Weak. I couldn’t sleep unless I had a dose of melatonin and Netflix. I had no support, certainly not from family or fake friends who thought their dating life and men-problems updates counted as connection. (P.S. If you’re one of those people who go on and on about your latest date, I scream inside. Just FYI.)

And in the middle of this, my mother and sister decided it was time we as a family renovated the house. They didn’t have the money, just aggressive emotional manipulation through phone calls and family group chats. The house flooded. The rainy season made things worse. And their weapon of guilt was: You want to leave your mother in this state? After hip surgery?

It worked. Despite saying “now isn’t the time,” over and over again, I found myself sending money. Supervising repairsoor and coordinating workmen. Meanwhile, I was bleeding through five pads a day. Waking at night to wash blood-stained sheets. Swinging from depression to rage. But what needs could Ezinne possibly have?

Guess what my mother said to me when I called her crying about the incident that happened to me a few days before my 27th birthday?

“That is none of my business. Fulfil your responsibility as a daughter and send me money.”

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The Painstaking Journey To Living As An Ada On My Own Terms

I eventually got on hormonal pills, which finally stopped the bleeding. And something clicked. I observed a pattern in my behavior. Every time I felt happy or relaxed, I would feel the need to send money home. To do something for someone. That was how I had been trained to validate my joy, by watching others enjoy what I could give. But I finally realized: this was a classic form of self-abandonment. So I had an honest conversation with myself.

The only way I could heal was to take my power back. To realize I didn’t need to do anything to be worthy of love. That I didn’t need applause or praise or grand gestures to be enough. That healing is happening in silence. In presence. In choosing me, over and over again so all I see and think of is how to meet my needs one after the other until I no longer feel neglected.

I made a long ass list of everything I needed. From supplements to fresh food and fruits to skincare and hair appointments and “pointless” spa sessions. All the things I used to do after everyone else’s needs were sorted. Then I wrote down boundaries and placed them by my bedside. I stared in the mirror and the brainwashed 15 year old Ezinne stared back, and I could see as clear as day that she was done with this shit.

Parenting my inner child unlocked a level of freedom I didn’t know existed.

It is not my responsibility to be a parent to my parents. It is not my job to parent my siblings. It was never my role to carry emotional burdens I didn’t create or end cycles of dysfunction that existed before I was conceived. I’m not obligated to sacrifice myself to prove love. I deserve motherly love. Sisterly love. Brotherly love. And if I have to wait for it, I will.

I’ve been loved unconditionally by women who aren’t related to me. Elderly women who have loved me like a daughter. That love has fed and nurtured me. So I know it exists. I am misunderstood, yes. Uncared for by those who should’ve known better, yes. But I no longer feel the need to step out of myself to be loved.

I will wait for the love I deserve while giving my body the unconditional love it has been craving all along. I would rather die than perform for love again. And this is my pledge to myself. Because if I don’t show up fully for myself, who will?

Check out my Novella “Strings”

What happens when a woman stops apologizing for who she is?

Strings follows Regina ,  a rising star whose fame can’t protect her from the secrets she thought she left behind. When betrayal pulls her back into a world she escaped, she’s forced to confront old wounds, dangerous legacies, and a name she buried long ago. If you’re drawn to character-driven fiction layered with suspense, vulnerability, faith, and fire… welcome in.

The Author

Ezinne Akam is a movie and TV producer, actress, writer, and founder of EBE Talent Collective, a startup talent agency based in Lagos, Nigeria. She has worked on movie projects that have won local and international awards including the Africa Magic Viewers Choice Awards (AMVCA). Hailing from Ebonyi, Nigeria, Ezinne draws inspiration from her Igbo heritage. She is driven by a passion for storytelling that celebrates Africa, addresses social issues and promotes women & children’s rights.

Her recent body of work include:
Prime Video: Soft Love, Breath of Life, When Love Strikes, The Perfect Arrangement.
Netflix: Shanty Town.
Showmax: Slum King.

Get to know Ezinne better at http://www.ezinneakam.com.

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