There are pictures of us laughing. Arms around each other. Matching outfits. Eyes closed in the way people do when they’re genuinely happy. But when I look at those pictures now, I don’t see sisterhood. I see someone trying to survive.
I learned to read the room before I could even do basic maths. I knew what moods meant silence. I knew when it was safe to speak and when it wasn’t. I figured out early on that love came with conditions. That being the easy, agreeable one kept the peace. That pretending everything was okay made life smoother, even if it cost me parts of myself.
Sisterhood in our family wasn’t about being close. It was about playing your part. Don’t stand out. Don’t speak up at the wrong time. Be there, but not too much. Help, but don’t need help. Be kind, even when it hurts you.
So I became what they expected. The mediator. The one who keeps the peace. The one who lets things slide. The one who doesn’t make it awkward. The one who always shows up.
But over time, showing up started to feel like I was disappearing. Like I was there, but invisible. Like I mattered more for what I did than who I was. Like my silence made everything easier for everyone but me.
I let go of parts of myself without realising it. The loud one. The sensitive one. The honest one. The one who wanted to be close without conditions.
They faded slowly. No big moment. Just a silent, steady loss.
And when I finally said no—when I stopped engaging—I wasn’t trying to be dramatic. I just needed space to breathe.
The silence from them afterwards didn’t surprise me. It confirmed what I already suspected: they were more attached to the version of me that kept the peace than the real me.
Now, without their opinions, without those old roles, I’m figuring out who I actually am. What I enjoy. What I need. Who I want to be when I’m not trying to keep everyone comfortable. I wonder if sisterhood can mean something different—something softer, safer—with people who see the whole of me.
Sometimes I miss them. Sometimes I miss the version of me who tried so hard. But more often than not, I’m just relieved to be on my own—and not feel alone.
I don’t hate them. I’m not even angry. I just don’t belong to them anymore.
And maybe that’s what healing looks like: Quiet. Not cruel. Just honest.