Harvard and Handholding
From the very beginning, it was always me and him against the world—my built-in best friend, my younger brother. Except he never quite felt like a younger brother. He was bigger than me, better at sports, and somehow made straight A’s look effortless. He’s Type A, a perfectionist with a drive that could move mountains, while I’m Type B, more laid-back but equally ambitious in my own way.
Growing up, we were inseparable—partners in crime and fiercest rivals all at once. We fought like animals over the most ridiculous things (who got to press the elevator button or who had more marshmallows in their lucky charms), but we also spent hours building Lincoln Logs, choreographing dances to perform for our parents (long live the “salsa” that wasn’t really a salsa at all), and holding business hours to barter from each other’s rooms. He was scared of the dark, and of bugs, and of being alone, and of germs, and of — well, I’ll just stop there. But I was his safety blanket for all of those things and more. Our bond didn’t need words; we just got each other.
But as much as I loved him, I sometimes felt like I was living in his orbit. Countless weekends were spent being toted around to his travel baseball games, cheering him on from the sidelines. I’d sit at his awards ceremonies as the other parents sighed with mild annoyance at how often his name got called to receive an award. I lived in his shadow, watching as his strengths shined brightly while I quietly questioned my own. My mom always said we just had different strengths. I thought, okay, well, his were obvious—so what were mine?
It was subtle at first, but as we got older, this dynamic only grew louder.
It didn’t help that everything he did seemed effortless. Meanwhile, I was quietly carving my own path, hustling to figure things out on my own. I was the guinea pig, the one who had to learn the hard way. Being the first-born and first-gen is not for the weak. And while I was busy navigating uncharted waters, he was cruising with the benefit of my hard-earned wisdom.
Then came Harvard. I was the one who encouraged him to apply, the one who stayed up late editing his essays. When he got in, I cried tears of pride—he deserved it. But a part of me also felt overshadowed. It didn’t just affect his life; it affected mine, too. “Your brother goes to Harvard? That’s insane. Oh, well, I bet you’re probably pretty smart too.” I mean, thanks, I guess?
And yeah, while I’m fully aware that this could very well just be me getting in my own head, let me have this.
But here’s the thing: I’ve never been a carbon copy of him, and I wouldn’t want to be. I’ve always been my own person, quietly achieving, creating, and growing in my own way. I’ve built a life that’s uniquely mine, with passions that are just as fulfilling. I’ve learned to shine in spaces where his spotlight doesn’t reach.
And yet, none of that diminishes our bond. I’m proud of everything we’ve shared—every fight, every laugh, every adventure. He’s not just my brother; he’s my co-pilot, my rival, and my toughest critic. (Heavy on that last part.) He’s the one who pushes me to dream bigger and work harder. (Don’t tell him I said that.)
Looking back, I can’t deny how proud I am to have been his role model, even if it wasn’t always obvious. Being the first-born came with challenges, but it also came with a special kind of pride—knowing that my path helped him succeed.
The truth is, being his sister has been one of the most complex, rewarding, and defining roles of my life. He’s taught me as much as I’ve taught him, and I’ve come to realize that even if I was walking in his shadow, it never diminished my own light. Instead, it reminds me of the bond we share—one built on mutual respect, admiration, and a lifetime of cheering each other on. I’m proud of the person he’s become, and even prouder to know that, in some small way, I’ve been part of his journey.
And at the end of the day, we’re still those two kids arguing over that damn elevator button.
