Esther, Vashti, and Me: Choosing Self in a World That Demands Sacrifice

When I was younger, I wanted to be like Queen Esther.

In church, we were taught about her beauty, her grace, and her goodness. We were told about the year-long beauty treatments, the favor she found with both God and the King, and her courage to save her people. She went from rags to riches and became a heroine, a woman whose legacy was sealed in both heaven and history.

Who wouldn’t want that?

Esther’s story felt like the ultimate fairytale, divine favor, royal elevation, and a noble cause. But as I grew older, life taught me something the Sunday school stories didn’t: most of us are more like Vashti.

We live in a capitalist society that rewards the self-abandonment of women and calls it goodness and success. A world that asks us to keep showing up, keep performing, keep smiling, even when it costs us our peace, our boundaries, and our dignity.

Vashti’s name was barely mentioned in church. She was the first wife of King Ahasuerus (Xerxes) of Persia, who is deposed for refusing his command to appear at a royal banquet wearing nothing but the royal crown. Her refusal to display her beauty to the king's drunken guests leads to her removal from her position and sets the stage for Esther to become the new queen. Her story was treated like a cautionary tale, a woman’s pride, they said, made her lose her crown.

But no one talked about what it meant to refuse. No one said that maybe Vashti wasn’t rebellious, maybe she was just tired. Maybe she was simply a woman who decided that her dignity was not up for display.

We may not have a king demanding that we show up naked, but many of us know what it feels like to be summoned anyway, by parents, siblings, friends, relatives, or lovers, to perform, to please, to show up when our hearts are weary. To trade our peace for approval. To bend so far that we break.

And when we finally say no, we’re called ungrateful. Disobedient. Difficult.

Just like Vashti.

But history loves Esther.

Society loves Esther.

The woman who survives where another woman is erased.

The woman who thrives because she knows how to shrink herself.

The woman who sacrifices everything, even her life, to save others.

And I get it. I really do. Because I’ve been Esther too.

No, my parents aren’t fighting a genocide, but I know what it’s like to want to save your community. To dream of being the one who turns things around. I’ve caught myself fantasizing about building my parents a mansion by the beach, a paradise where they can rest from a lifetime of struggle.

But real life? It humbled me.

Seven years ago, I quit my job. Shortly after, I was conned out of the last of my money by a website developer who promised online visibility for my business and delivered nothing. Rent was overdue, and I couldn’t keep up. So I packed my things, loaded them onto the back of an old pickup truck I had hired, and began my journey back home, back to square one.

Halfway there, a police officer stopped us, demanding a bribe. I couldn’t afford it, and neither could the driver. We were escorted to the nearest station, where he was arrested for operating an unroadworthy vehicle. And there I was, sitting outside a police station, my life packed in boxes behind me, watching the sun go down.

No one came to save me.

I sat there for hours. Long enough for two things to happen.

First, I got a message on Facebook from a childhood friend. We hadn’t spoken in decades, but her child was sick and she needed help. She’d seen the bright, curated moments of my life online, the smiles, the soft light, the “success.” She thought I could save her. But I couldn’t. Not that day. And she resents me to this day for it. (Her child is fine, by the way.)

The second thing was quieter, kinder. A friend showed up and sat beside me. She cracked jokes, made me laugh when all I wanted to do was curl into a ball and cry. She holds a special place in my heart for her continued kindness.

That day, I met myself, not the Esther people wanted me to be, but the Vashti I truly was. A woman stripped of illusion, sitting outside a police station with nothing but her dignity and her dreams.

Maybe that’s what saving looks like sometimes, not rescuing others, but choosing not to abandon yourself. Because sometimes the miracle isn’t divine favor, it’s survival. It’s grace. It’s laughter in the middle of despair.

Sometimes, being a firstborn daughter feels like living in Esther’s shadow, constantly reaching for favor, trying to earn love, and dreaming of saving everyone you care about. You grow up believing your worth is tied to your usefulness, that you must do something extraordinary to justify your place at the table.

But here’s the truth: you cannot rescue your family or your friends while abandoning yourself.

You are still building. Still healing. Still becoming. And that’s not failure, that’s faith.

The world will always celebrate the daughter who sacrifices everything, her peace, her time, her boundaries, in the name of love and loyalty. But I’ve learned that there is holiness in the Vashti path too, in saying, “Not today. Not like this.”

Because you don’t have to be a savior to be significant.

Your worth isn’t in the mansion you dream of building or the battles you fight on behalf of others. It’s in your presence. Your becoming. Your willingness to stay true to yourself even when no one comes to save you.

So to every firstborn daughter who is expected to save everyone, I see you.

You don’t need to wear a crown to be chosen.

You don’t need divine favor to be enough.

Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is sit outside the police station of your own life, broke, exhausted, waiting, and choose not to give up on yourself.

That too, is a kind of salvation. 🌿✨