I still remember the day my first sister was born. I was just four, barely old enough to tie my own shoelaces, but old enough to feel a strange rush of pride when I saw that tiny face wrapped in a pink blanket. Everyone in the room was smiling, but I—without even understanding the meaning of sisterhood—felt something deeper. A feeling that whispered, "From now on, you have someone to protect."
Two years later, another little angel came into our lives. I was six by then, already used to being the "big sister," the one who fetched diapers, rocked cradles, and sometimes lost sleep so that the babies could sleep peacefully. While other kids my age were busy with toys and cartoons, I was learning how to hold bottles, wipe tears, and tell bedtime stories.
And you know what? I loved it. Every bit of it.
My sisters became my world before I even knew what "world" really meant.
We grew up sharing everything—clothes, secrets, even dreams. Our home was always full of noise—laughs, fights, cries, songs, and a lot of "Give me that! It's mine!" moments. But behind all those tiny battles, there was a kind of love that never needed to be spoken out loud.
Being the eldest meant being the bridge between chaos and calm. When they fought, I was the judge. When they got scolded, I was the shield. When they cried, I was the shoulder. And when they succeeded, I was the proudest person in the room.
There were nights when they would both sneak into my bed just to sleep beside me. One on my left, one on my right—like two warm little hearts beating against mine. They'd fall asleep quickly, but I'd stay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking how lucky I was to be their sister.
Growing up wasn't easy for me. I had to be mature before my time. I had to learn to hide my tears so they wouldn't worry, to stay strong even when I wanted to break. Because deep down, I knew they looked up to me. I was their example—their "big sister," the one they believed could handle everything.
But sometimes, I couldn't.
There were days when I felt tired—tired of being strong, tired of pretending I had all the answers. Yet, just one look at their faces, their smiles, their innocent faith in me… and I'd find the strength again. That's what they've always been—my reason to stand back up when life tried to knock me down.
As they got older, the dynamic changed. They started making their own decisions, exploring their own worlds. We began to grow apart in small ways—different schools, different interests, different dreams. But even then, I never stopped watching over them from a distance. I never stopped worrying, even when they told me not to.
I remember one night, my middle sister came home crying after a fight with her friend. She tried to hide it, but her eyes gave her away. I didn't ask what happened. I just hugged her. No advice, no words—just silence and warmth. Because sometimes, that's all we need: someone who understands without asking.
And my youngest—she's always been the baby of the house. The one who gets away with everything, the one who fills the house with laughter even on gloomy days. She can be stubborn, dramatic, and messy, but she has the purest heart I've ever seen. She still calls me "sissy" in that same tone she used when she was five. Every time she does, a piece of my heart melts.
There's a strange comfort in knowing that no matter how old they get, they still need me—sometimes for advice, sometimes for reassurance, and sometimes just to remind them that they are loved.
I remember the night before my middle sister's entrance exam. She was nervous, pacing around the room. I made her tea, sat her down, and said, "You've got this. You're stronger than you think." The next morning, she hugged me before leaving and whispered, "I'm brave because of you."
That sentence—those six simple words—became one of the most precious moments of my life.
Because that's what being an elder sister is all about. It's not just about guiding or protecting; it's about building confidence in them even when you're unsure of your own.
Of course, we fight. Oh, we fight a lot. About clothes, about whose turn it is to wash dishes, about who took my charger again. But even in those silly arguments, there's love. Because no matter how angry we get, we always end up laughing again. No sorrys needed, no explanations required—just one small joke, and everything's okay.
They're not just my sisters; they're my reflection in two different forms. One is my calm, gentle side. The other is my wild, fearless one. Together, they complete me.
Sometimes, I imagine a future where we all live in different cities, maybe even different countries. I imagine missing them—their noise, their presence, the chaos that fills the house when we're together. And I know it'll hurt. Because once you've built your world around people, distance can never really take that away; it only teaches you how deep love can travel.
Now, as I look back, I realize something beautiful: being the eldest is not a burden—it's a blessing. It taught me how to love unconditionally, how to be strong even when no one's watching, and how to find joy in seeing others grow.
They say every superhero has a story. Mine begins and ends with my sisters. They're my biggest motivation, my softest corner, and my forever home.
Even when life feels uncertain, I know one thing for sure—no matter where we go, how much we change, or how many people enter our lives, we'll always have each other.
Because some bonds aren't just made of blood—they're woven with laughter, tears, late-night talks, inside jokes, and silent understandings.
And if I ever get another life to live, I'll still choose to be their elder sister.
A thousand times over.