Self Awareness and Sisterhood; A Midsummer Reflection

“This summer, we will paint, read, and binge watch shows through the night. We will go to the roller rink out in Laurel and stumble to 90s pop for hours. On hot evenings, I’ll drive us to the local soft serve stand and we will walk under an orange-streaked sky until our sandals give us blisters. And on your 16th birthday…” 

I won’t be with you at all. 

Instead, I will be in Georgia, surrounded by unfamiliarity and a claustrophobic dorm room. 

Just a few days ago, my sister and I were sorting through a heap of Amazon boxes piled in the corner of my room. Twin XL bedsheets, hangers, a lamp, and a powerbank charger on one side. Desk organizers, space optimizers, and dust obliterators shoved against the opposite wall. I turned to my energetic younger sister with exasperation. She had no obligation to help me get my life together, but I was relieved when she directed me from task to task. Her oversight is a gift because her gaze shields me from invisibility. 

“Check all the plugs on your mirror and test out the batteries,” she said. It had taken a few hours, but after we unboxed everything I surveyed my stuff with unease. How many items would I actually use, and how much money would be lost? Even putting items in my virtual shoppers’ cart was overwhelming as I became aware of how costly college is becoming. My sister would not gain anything but skyrocketing cortisol levels from my Type A rationale, but she lingered each time I panicked over expenses associated with dorm living. 

We decided on filming a vlog of the unboxing process, because my sister enjoys torturing herself by torturing me. She is a fun and spontaneous sibling, but I am not skilled at masking my emotions while navigating social situations. Don’t make faces, my sister compels. Just tell me what’s wrong. She is observant, which agitates me as an older sibling who would rather compromise than confront. 

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Rather than bonding over assembling a shoe rack (while on video), I was restless and argued. We lugged boxes back and forth and I grew wary of the looming task before me: in less than two months, I will be alone. That wariness manifested in sporadic outbursts when my batteries were misplaced or a screw rolled under the couch. Dust scattered through an otherwise spotless room and my dogs barked at subatomic particles. Preparing for move in day unnerved me, and my sister could tell. From the way I fidgeted with my fingers, grunted when I couldn’t decipher an instruction manual, and sighed after realizing how much money these items had cost, she realized her unboxing vlog would not be an entertaining rewatch. 

Nobody prepares the incoming college freshman for new beginnings because that is included in the college experience package. Nobody prepares an unassuming college freshman for letting go of a routine they grew up with or being surrounded by a support system throughout the day. Knowing I am moving far from my family brings a thrilling excitement independence at last, but it does not last. At least not long enough to calm my frantic planning. When I add another column, task, or spreadsheet, I am aware that my behavior is not sustainable. Self awareness becomes painstaking, distanced from the body’s harmful instincts. In high school, I took my routine for granted because I found it flawless. Facing my sister’s hurt expression, I realized if I don’t communicate, I will never form community or support my family. If I could put a restraining order on my anger, perhaps we could soften the inevitable blow in August. 

My memories search in vain for constants, for reminders of the routine I will soon abandon. These structures morph into a coping mechanism that my sister acknowledges with a pat on the shoulder, a sidelong stare, or a blunt affirmation. We fight and nag because we are exhausted in our societal roles but comfortable with each other to an extent. There is no need for performance and polite exchanges in safe places. Despite any mutual annoyance, simple efforts go a long way.

On my sister’s sixteenth birthday, I will mail her a card and stare at a Facetime rendition of her face. Pixels forming a person. Spending sixteen years with someone who understands you more than you understand yourself has grounded me. I often struggle to articulate how much her presence influences my life (keeps me sane). It may be too early for reminiscing because in July, each day lingers a bit longer. Time warps on summer afternoons, and I almost give into the illusion that we have nothing but endless hours. What a privilege it is to experience boredom and watch your sister grow into a compassionate leader on her own high school journey. She will complain about the same tests and IB courses I completed, but I have no doubt she will manage her time with greater awareness. In fact, she got a learner’s permit two years earlier than I did.

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The poet June Jordan wrote, “we are the ones we have been waiting for.” Trusting ourselves to nurture relationships and mature while immersed within a society hellbent on restricting self expression is a risk. And yet, I would risk vulnerability for connection every time. My sister waits for me and I wait for her. She is half of me—my spontaneous choices and complainer-in-arms. 

I am writing today because I know my sister won’t read these words for some time. And when she does, I hope she knows how much I love her stubborn heart and forgiving kindness. Thank you for building me up.