Martha, the Firstborn Daughter: A Meditation on Duty, Resentment, and the Better Part

The Bible does not specify the birth order of the siblings Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, yet throughout my readings, I have come to perceive Martha as the firstborn daughter in this familial trio. Or the eldest daughter. This understanding resonates deeply with me, particularly when considering the character traits and responsibilities often associated with firstborn children. In Luke’s Gospel, Martha exemplifies many qualities traditionally attributed to the eldest daughter—traits that I, too, have grappled with: hyper-responsibility, performance under pressure, and the aching desire to feel seen in the midst of service.

When Jesus arrives in her village, Martha instinctively assumes the role of hostess—dutiful, busy, and burdened. It’s a role many firstborn daughters know well. We take care of everything and everyone, often without being asked. Luke describes her as being “burdened with much serving,” a phrase that encapsulates not just activity, but weight. A heaviness. A life lived in the trenches of duty. Meanwhile, her sister Mary chooses something else entirely: to sit. To listen. To be.

This contrast is striking—and uncomfortable. As Martha toils, Mary rests. As Martha performs, Mary receives. The tension between the two sisters is not just a family squabble; it’s a spiritual dilemma. It’s the internal battle many of us live with every day: Do I keep going, or do I sit down? Do I keep doing, or am I allowed to just be?

Eventually, the pressure breaks Martha down. Frustrated and likely exhausted, she turns to Jesus—not just for help, but for validation:

“Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me by myself to do the serving? Tell her to help me” (Luke 10:40).

It’s a cry so many firstborn daughters have echoed in silence:

I’m doing so much. Doesn’t anybody care?

In that moment, Martha isn’t just asking for help; she’s asking to be seen. She’s asking for fairness, for her effort to be recognized, for someone—anyone—to say, “You’re right, this is too much.”

But Jesus’ response is not what she expects. He doesn’t jump to her defense. Instead, he speaks directly to the root of her unrest:

“Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, and it will not be taken from her.”

It’s a gentle rebuke—but also an invitation. Jesus isn’t saying Martha’s work is worthless. He’s saying her worry is. Her resentment, her belief that her worth is tied to how much she can manage—that is what he challenges.

This is where the Gospel becomes incredibly personal for me. Because like Martha, I have felt both righteous and invisible in my service. I have believed, at times, that being the responsible one would earn me love, peace, and rest—eventually. But Jesus doesn’t promise peace after you’re done serving. He offers it in the moment—to anyone willing to choose presence over performance.

The message here isn’t about abandoning service. It’s about unlearning the lie that over-functioning is the same as faithfulness. It’s about seeing that our value isn’t measured by our usefulness, but by our nearness to God. This is a hard truth for many firstborn daughters to swallow. We are so used to being needed that we forget we are also allowed to need. We’re allowed to stop. We are allowed to be held. We are allowed to choose what Mary chose.

Choosing “the better part” means releasing the martyrdom that often defines our identities. It means asking ourselves—without guilt—what do I need? and what brings me closer to the truth of who I am and who God is? That is not selfishness. That is soul care. That is healing.

And healing is not passive. It is holy. It is sitting at the feet of Christ—wherever his presence is felt in your life—and letting him remind you: you are already enough.

And now, as a new mother, I’m rediscovering this truth in even deeper ways. Motherhood is showing me—again and again—that presence is sacred, rest is resistance, and softness is a strength. I carry these revelations into every journal I create, every client session I hold, and every prayer I whisper for women like us.

You don’t have to carry it all.

You were never meant to.

You are allowed to be well.

And you are welcome to begin—right where you are.

So to every firstborn daughter who’s grown tired of always being the strong one, the responsible one, the one who gets things done:

You are seen.

You are loved beyond your labor.

You are invited to sit down.

Not because the work isn’t important.

But because you are.

If any part of this reflection stirred something in you, I invite you to slow down with it. Journal. Breathe. Ask yourself: what would it mean for me to choose the better part today?

Through my work at Hai—which means “alive” in Kiswahili—I create spaces and tools for firstborn daughters like us to move from survival into presence, from self-abandonment into self-trust. On www.nyatichi.com, you’ll find carefully crafted wellness journals, introspective writing, and offerings designed to support your healing wherever you are.

If you are craving personal support, I offer one-on-one coaching for firstborn daughters ready to shed the weight of constant responsibility and reconnect with their inner wisdom. Together, we explore what healing, softness, and presence look like in your actual life—not as theory, but as lived practice. My work is tender, honest, and grounded in the belief that healing is not a luxury. It is your birthright.

This is safe, honest, and nurturing work. If you’re ready to begin that journey with me, you can book a free discovery call or learn more about my coaching sessions {here}