Of course I have a story because as a middle child myself, I fall in the middle of two older sisters and one younger sister. Even though I didn’t have the courage to say it out loud, I was tired of following in their footsteps. I didn’t want my whole life to feel like a repeat performance of what they had already done.

So, when it came time for college, I decided I wasn’t going to follow the same path. I wanted something different, something that felt like me. That choice to step away, to chart my own course, came with its own kind of invisibility.

Here’s what I mean: there are people who know my sisters so well that when they’re reminded I exist, they pause, tilt their heads, and say things like, “We don’t remember her. Did she grow up with y’all?” It’s happened more than once. In fact, at one of my sister’s class reunions, I was introduced as her sister, and people honestly looked surprised. It was as if I had appeared out of nowhere.

My sisters usually fill in the gap by saying something like, “She’s the one who went away to college on the East Coast. She’s the one who wrote three books.” That’s the identity they give me, a way for others to place me in the story.

I’ll be straight with you. Here’s the truth I’ve had to live with: as a middle child, I was overshadowed. I was quiet, shy, and content to stay in the background. And yet, over time, I realized something. Just because I wasn’t always remembered or recognized didn’t mean I didn’t matter. In fact, that quietness was holding a story of its own.

That’s the beauty of the middle child’s perspective. We may not always be the loudest voice in the room, but when we speak, there’s often a depth behind our words. We’ve spent so much time listening, observing, and adjusting that when our voice finally rises, it carries weight.

Think about it: middle children are natural bridge-builders. We’ve learned to keep the peace between siblings, to negotiate our way into fairness, to find creative solutions when resources were already claimed by the ones before us. And those same skills, when brought into adulthood, can shape workplaces, communities, and even global conversations.

Being underestimated can actually be an advantage. It gives us room to grow without the pressure of expectation, to surprise people with what we bring to the table. Sometimes the ones people overlook end up writing the stories that inspire generations. 

So here’s my encouragement: if you’re a middle child, don’t buy into the myth that your story doesn’t matter. Don’t let invisibility convince you that your voice isn’t needed. Quite the opposite—because of what you’ve lived and seen, your perspective is often richer, more balanced, and more compassionate than most.

You’ve got something to say. The world may not always notice you right away, but when you open your mouth, your story can shift the room.

Even if you’re not a middle child, you’ve probably been “in the middle” at some point—between two opinions, two opportunities, or two expectations. And in that place, you’ve had to make sense of competing voices while still finding your own. That’s the power of the middle: it teaches us resilience, creativity, and how to tell stories from the in-between.

So this month, I want you to consider: what story from the middle are you holding? Maybe it’s about being overlooked. Maybe it’s about learning to compromise. Maybe it’s about finding your own voice after years of silence. Who know what it could lead to. A memoir, an article, a book, or even a podcast.

Blessings, 

Dr. Janice R. Love
Founder, Pearls Perfected Institute