Velvet, plaid and ruffles whirl around me as I step in and out of my father’s closet to the beat of Ariana Grande. My sister crouches beside her bright aqua iPod, straightening a strand of my hair, her mind on the next outfit change. I strike three grand poses, my Dora-style haircut swinging sharply against my rosy cheeks.
“Perfect,” she says, her voice full of a certainty that terrifies and excites me. “Again!”
Our makeshift fashion shows were my earliest memories with my older sister. When I was 5 years old, she was 12. Too young to communicate with words, I built our relationship on following her instructions.
Soon, her interests in playing dress-up faded into a world that felt impossibly adult. In the room above me, her adolescence was only starting: first crushes, driving lessons and the looming future. Blissfully absorbed in my own playground drama, we had nothing in common. Our interactions often frustrated us as she didn’t understand why I struggled with multiplication or other things kids her age already knew.
With maturity came more instructions as she became more self-aware: a tug at my sleeve or a warning look when I was being dramatic — reminders of how to hold myself in front of others. In my eyes, my sister only saw the parts of me that needed straightening in ways that made her feel like a third parent.
Yet my resentment waned when she came home from college full of stories, opening windows to a world bigger than middle school. Exposed to the heartbreak, insecurity and rejection she had faced, I learned to comfort and support her. Through gossip and secrets we couldn’t tell Mom, we worked to bridge the 7-year gap that separated us. In these fleeting moments, age was meaningless.
However, carrying her experiences and my newfound maturity left me isolated as I navigated feelings too large for my youth. Friends my age weren’t ready for those conversations, so I turned to my sister for everything, earning myself a place in her room for late-night talks.
Due to her quiet regrets over quitting art and music in high school, she encouraged me to continue creating and suggested that I should try journalism in high school. She’s the reason I’ve made writing and drawing a part of my daily routine through clubs and classes, knowing that seven years ago, she walked this campus too.
Everywhere I’ve been, my sister’s outline is already waiting for me. She’s my model and I follow her lead, trusting her to show me which risks are worth taking and which steps lead to joy. However, I’m still learning that there is no formula for life. There is no way to predict mistakes or match someone else’s pace. I will always be her younger sister first, but her guidance can only take me so far — the rest of my path is my own to discover.
