The Loneliness of Being First

There’s a quiet kind of courage required to live a life without a blueprint.

When you’re the first in your family or community to chart a path that hasn’t been walked before—to attend university, to travel the world, to build a business from scratch, to choose healing over silence—you often hear the applause. And rightly so. These are remarkable milestones that deserve celebration.

But there’s a part of the journey that rarely makes it into the Instagram captions or the keynote speeches: the loneliness of being first.

Because when there’s no roadmap, there’s also no reference point. No one to say, “Here’s what to expect.” You become both the pioneer and the test subject. The view from the top may be breathtaking, but the climb is often solitary.

And then there’s the mental pressure—the impossible balancing act of living for an audience of One, staying true to your faith and convictions, while being surrounded by a crowd of spectators. Some cheer, others question, and all of them—whether silently or loudly—are watching.

That tension shows up everywhere.

In marriage, Nic and I are creating something we didn’t grow up seeing in its fullness. Our families come from rich and layered stories, shaped by love, loss, and resilience. And while we carry deep respect for those stories, the truth is that we’re building a kind of partnership that neither of us had a clear model for. That can feel incredibly isolating—especially in moments when we reach crossroads and wish we had elders to turn to who’ve walked this particular path. There’s a quiet grief in not knowing where to go for certain kinds of wisdom, even as we remain deeply grateful for the love and support our families do give. Still, we press on—choosing love daily, learning as we go, and anchoring ourselves in faith. Each step forward becomes part of the foundation we’re laying for our children and theirs.

In business, the weight feels just as personal. There are days when I long to be vulnerable, to admit I’m unsure or overwhelmed. But when those closest to you expect and need you to succeed, vulnerability can feel like a luxury you can’t afford. You end up carrying the hopes of others alongside your own, which can quietly limit the very creativity and courage required to thrive.

Even in health, I’m here walking out my perimenopausal journey alone. It’s taken years to find the right help to make this season manageable. But the help is helping. And I guess that’s true of most things—though it may be rough at first, when you seek support, it can be found.

My hope is that all this work—this constant becoming—will make my son and daughter’s journey a little easier. That when it’s their turn to go first, they won’t be starting from scratch. There’ll be a blueprint they can shape to suit their lives. And that their lives, and the lives of generations to come, will be all the richer for it.

This is the sacred tension of being first: joy and ache. Triumph and solitude. Limitless possibility, wrapped in the quiet grief of not always being understood.

But I want to remind you (and myself) of this: being the first does not mean being the only.

Someone is watching your journey and gathering the courage to begin theirs. And one day, they’ll walk their path with a little more certainty—because you dared to walk yours without a map.

So here’s to the firsts. The ones who carry both the hope and the heaviness of new beginnings. You may feel alone sometimes—but you are never truly alone.

Peace & love.

Dawn