Sis, let me describe the disappearing act you perform so seamlessly that nobody in your life including you recognizes it as a disappearance. You have a need. A real one. Not dramatic. Not excessive. Not the kind that would inconvenience anyone if it were expressed. Something as basic as “I need to rest tonight” or
Sis, let me describe the calculation that runs inside you before almost every decision you make. Not the practical calculation the “can I afford this?” or “do I have time for this?” kind. The other one. The one that evaluates every choice, every response, every potential action through a single filter: will this disappoint someone?
Sis, let me describe the role you didn’t audition for but have been performing your entire life. You’re the helpful one. The one they call when something needs handling. The one who anticipates problems before they surface. The one who reorganizes her schedule around someone else’s emergency without being asked — because she’s been doing
Sis, let me describe the measurement that’s been running your life without your permission. Every room you walk into. Every photo you appear in. Every mirror you pass. Every woman you stand beside. The measurement activates automatic, comprehensive, ruthless in its precision and produces the same result it’s been producing for as long as you
Sis, let me describe the shrinking that happens so fast you don’t even register it as movement. You were fine. Maybe even good. You got dressed. Looked in the mirror. Felt something approaching okay maybe not stunning, maybe not the magazine version, but acceptable. Present. Enough. The kind of quiet contentment that doesn’t announce itself
Sis, let me describe the feeling that follows you into every milestone, every birthday, every moment where you pause long enough to look around and measure where you are against where you think you should be. You feel behind. Not in one specific area. In everything. Career. Relationship. Finances. Personal growth. The house you don’t
Sis, let me describe the moment your relationship stops feeling secure — and it has nothing to do with him. You’re with him. Things are fine. Maybe even good. The connection is present. The evening is going well. You feel settled — or at least close to settled — inside whatever version of security the
Sis, let me describe a specific kind of ugly that has nothing to do with the mirror. You look at your relationship. And then you look at theirs. The couple on Instagram. The friends who seem effortlessly in sync. The pair at the restaurant whose body language radiates a warmth yours hasn’t felt in months.
Sis, let me describe the feeling that lives underneath the comparison the one that’s heavier than envy and deeper than insecurity. Shame. Not the surface-level “I wish I had what she has.” Not the fleeting pang of envy that passes once you close the app. Something deeper. Something that settles into your body the way
Sis, let me describe what happens during the fifteen minutes you spend on your phone before you’ve even gotten out of bed. You open the app. Not with intention — with reflex. The thumb moves before the mind engages. And within seconds, the feed delivers its morning report. Her vacation. His promotion. Their engagement. Her