The sisterhood of the sisterless

How I've come to feel about not having a sister

Growing up, nearly all of my friends and I were the eldest children in our families. It was one of the bigger things we had in common. Our siblings, therefore, were also what set us apart. Most of my friends had sisters, and given we went to a private Catholic school, many of them had more than one. Three, actually, had two, and one even had three. There were few of us who had brothers, and even fewer who had no siblings at all. It was an observation I made whenever I was over at their houses. Among all the pink and the Beanie Babies, it was hard to miss.

When I think about it, I didn’t mind having a brother. I actually liked it for the most part. We were each other’s built-in friend, which came in handy whenever we were on vacation or spending time in a less entertaining environment like our grandparents’ house. We were three years apart, so we never had to compete in school or sports, but were close enough in age to still relate to one another. Of course, we had our differences and fought a fair amount as siblings do, but overall, we coexisted nicely.

As much as I loved and appreciated my brother, I still preferred the company of girls, which is probably how I ended up with the friend group I did. Though we shared a roof, my mom was distant and carried an undercurrent of anger with her wherever she went. I learned early on to stay out of her wake and take all of my thoughts and feelings to my dad, even things like my request for a training bra when I was twelve. Sure, he wouldn’t always understand (and yes, sometimes it was embarrassing and awkward), but it beat trying to broach the subject with someone who was emotionally shut down, even if she was the only other woman in the house.

For much of my life, my friends have been my lifeline. They were what got me through middle school and the other difficult days. Their houses were my sanctuary, and they my sisters along with their siblings. At Alexandra’s, we’d all dress up as hula dancers and prance around the sprinkler in the yard. At Kastle’s, I would use my self-taught skills to braid crowns around her head and those of her sisters. I spent so much time with my friend Marissa and her family that people often assumed I was just another dark-haired daughter. Those instances were some of the first times I truly felt like I belonged. Being with their families filled a void for me and my own. Where walking into my own house was met with ambivalence at best, at theirs I was welcomed with open arms. I was the friend who never minded when the younger ones wanted to hang out with us. It annoyed my friends, but pleased their parents and delighted their sisters, and as a result, I was greeted emphatically by all of them whenever I came over. In my mind, it was the more the merrier. In my bones, it felt good to be wanted.

In college, I wandered my way into another family that showed me another side of sisterhood. I’d seen snippets of it from my childhood friends: the stealing of clothes, the screaming of lungs. It was just a different flavor the same fights my brother and I had. But it was nothing compared to my new friend and her sister. What they had was psychological warfare. And it affected more than just the two of them.

The friend of mine was the eldest sister, and like eldest sisters tend to be if you’re not me, she was domineering and Type A. Her sister was introduced to me as her polar opposite, that is, friendly and Type B. Naturally, she and I hit it off immediately, though I got along with and appreciated them both for different reasons. Over time, I realized how their differences came to be. Born less than two years apart, they were proverbially neck and neck, products of their birth order and in constant competition with each other. Their effect on each other was that of a vicious cycle. Each was the way she was because of the other. The younger acted out because the elder had control issues, and the elder’s control issues only got worse the more the younger acted out. Ever the lost duckling looking for my flock, I often found myself in the middle. They’d each confide in me about the other, with the elder making scathing comments about the younger given our closer relationship. Her comments about her younger sister reminded me that we still differed despite our similarities. Due to these differences, I figured my friend and I were closer than the two of them were. How could we not be when I never did any of the things that made her consistently shove her sister under the bus?

When she got engaged, I realized I was sorely mistaken. “You’re my best friend, but she’s my sister,” she said when she told me who would be her maid of honor. Though her sister and I were similar, and therefore controllable by her in similar ways, I was still on a completely separate playing field. I was permitted to comply with Girl Code, but I wasn’t eligible for Sisterhood. I would never know what it was like to have an Actual Sister, and she made sure that was clear. It was the first time I saw her and her family for what they were. Where the families of my childhood made me feel like I was gaining, she and hers made me feel like I myself was lacking.

This former friend is why I tend to have a chip on my shoulder when it comes to sisters. Sisters are allowed to fight fiercely and play dirty. They’re allowed to talk shit and go for the jugular. They’re also the only ones allowed to do everything together, get matching tattoos, and prioritize the other over anyone else, no matter who they are. If the first rule of Fight Club is to not talk about Fight Club, the first rule of The Sister Club is that you can’t be a part of it.

After being rejected by the only other woman in my household, the exclusion from The Sister Club cuts even deeper. The pain is so blinding it makes me forget the things I do have. It makes me forget that my childhood friends are not like that, that I am no less their friend simply because they happen to share DNA with another woman or two. Marissa, most notably, always made me feel like I was hers and she was mine – not just sister, but person. It makes me forget the balance my brother brings to me as a person and our dynamic, that because of him, I have a wonderful sister-in-law who also only has a brother; how together she and I are each other’s sister. When I look at it this way, I see how that friendship led to my warped perspective on sisterhood. I still have the bitter taste of a noxious family in my mouth, but it’s not reflective of the whole. It’s simply one example. Out of my own lifetime data set, it’s just one bad slice of an otherwise pretty great pie.

Despite how that former friend made it seem, biology has never stopped me from forming sister-like relationships. In fact, one of my best friends is an only child. Rather than fill a void for each other, we bring something new into the other’s life. We’re close enough to have the difficult conversations and move past them in a single sitting instead of letting them fester and congeal as blood does when it’s thicker than water. We take the toxicity out of it and have a healthier, more authentic relationship as a result.

If you ask me, that’s what sisterhood should be. It should be a bond, not a birthright. It should be an inclusive community where you can be seen, heard, held, and understood as you are, not because of who you’re related to. It should make you feel expansive, not lesser. It should be as supportive as it is sacred.

And found family is sacred. I don’t think I’d be here if it weren’t. The families I found growing up didn’t take me under their wing as an ugly duckling. They brought me into their brood as one of their own. I love my biological family despite our issues, but there are some wounds only found family can heal.

I may be sisterless on paper, but I have so many women I can lean on in real life. Less, it seems, really is more when you look at it that way.

And that is more than enough for me.