Living Behind The Glass

Written By: Amy Miller

First-Person Experience

(Joao Vitor Marcilio/Unsplash)

Feb. 25, 2026

MIAMI — “Amy,” my mom says, her voice low, “it is time for you to grow up.”

I am twelve, standing in the bathroom with water still dripping from my hair. The mirror is fogged, the air damp. I can hear the hum of the air coming through the vents. My towel feels rough against my hands as I slip it over and under the rod. Regardless, I feel her eyes on me—quiet. I keep my back turned.

Her words hang in the air as my face burns. It is unfair, but it is nothing new.

At seven, I stood barefoot in the hallway, clutching my favorite stuffed whale so tightly the seams dug into my palms. My brother’s screams were so loud they seemed to shake the walls, a shrill, piercing sound that made me feel uneasy. My parents’ voices cut through, sharp and frantic. I swallowed my fear and stepped into the room, my small voice breaking through the noise.

“It’s okay,” I said again and again, softer each time, in an effort to soothe my brother and, in hindsight, myself.

That was the first time I understood the word de-escalate—and the first time I realized it might always be my job.

(Caleb Woods/Unsplash)

By fifteen, the noise no longer startled me. What frightened me were my own thoughts. At night, I lay awake in the dark, the ceiling fan whirring above me. I would stare at it until my eyes burned, thinking about the future—wondering if my brother would ever be able to live alone, or if one day I would become his guardian.

At sixteen, I understood that neither my parents nor the doctors knew how to help my brother. I dreamed about what I would do if my parents weren’t there anymore. I tried to imagine what kind of job I would need to support both of us. I planned for a future that might never really belong to me.

For years, I had no name for this invisible work. It was simply my life—heavy, silent, and isolated.

Until seventeen.

I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, the glow of my phone lighting the room, when I stumbled across an article about siblings of children with disabilities—and its words stopped me cold.

I read the line again.

Glass Child: a child whose own needs are overlooked and minimized because parents are preoccupied with a sibling who has a significant illness, disability, or behavioral challenge.

(Casper Nichols/Unsplash)

Seventeen years of quiet struggle collapsed into two words.

I felt both anger and relief. Relief, because discovering the term meant I wasn't imagining it. I wasn't alone. There were others who carried the same invisible weight, and for the first time, I had language for my experience. A community. A sense of solidarity.

Yet anger—because why had it taken so long to find this? Why had no one ever told me this term existed?

I needed answers, so I went looking for them.

I designed a study to explore the lives of other glass children. I interviewed five young women, each carrying their own version of the story I had lived. They spoke about feeling forgotten, about taking on parental roles, about planning for futures that felt heavy before they had even begun.

I listened, I coded their words, I traced patterns—and in their voices, I heard my own. Their stories validated my quietest thoughts.

But in this validation, I felt threatened—because the word confined me, reducing me to silence and sacrifice, as if that were the only story I had to tell.

It confined me to a role that was painful to carry.

By definition, I am a middle child—but definitions are dangerous. A double-edged sword; they allow for structure in a world that is inherently chaotic, but they lack the ability to account for nuance. By definition, I am a middle child, yet everything about my upbringing suggests otherwise. My brother, four years older than me, is ten years behind cognitively, making me the eldest in terms of cognitive development and functional maturity.

I know now to hold definitions lightly—to use them for understanding but never allow them to erase complexity. I am a person who cannot be reduced to a term or word and no longer seeks to find my identity in one. I am someone who happens to have a sibling with a disorder, and someone who has become stronger, more compassionate, and more resilient because of it.

(Annika Palmari/Unsplash)