When my brother was in high school, I’d stand outside the glass door of our home office while he was doing homework and knock until he let me in. He found it endearing — after all, I was just a kindergartener in search of a playmate — and somehow, he always found time amid his high school stress to entertain me. He’s been both a role model and a constant support in my life.
For nearly five years after he graduated college, he lived at home with my parents and me, and because of that, we were constantly together. We learned to cook together, devised game plans for each other’s friend drama and spent late nights discussing everything from our analysis of TV shows to — quite literally — the meaning of life, and it brought us closer than we’d ever been.
So, when he decided to move to New York City last spring, I was terrified. Technically, he had already moved out — he lived in an apartment in San Mateo — but 2,500 miles is quite a few more than 25, and I’d never been away from him for more than a few weeks at a time. I was used to debriefing our days after school and work, practicing dance in the park on weekends and working through physics problems together — our lives were thoroughly intertwined. Suddenly faced with the idea of not seeing him for months, I didn’t want to confront the possibility that our relationship was one built only on proximity and, therefore, one that would break down with distance.
One of our most precious moments was last April, when we took a three-hour drive to a state-wide speech tournament, sharing stories and sipping our Happy Lemon tea. In that little bubble of his car, the way he listened so sincerely just made me feel safe, cared for in a way I haven’t felt with anyone else. I found myself telling him experiences I had never spoken about before — namely, the constant paranoia that comes with having a nut allergy — because up until then, I’d never found anyone who understood. That was when it hit me — I was afraid that him moving would mean us losing those honest moments.
Despite my fear, I knew that he needed the change of pace that moving would bring, and it would be selfish for me to stand in the way, so the question became how to deal with it. In our usual style, we talked about keeping in touch — though we knew we’d both be busier than ever, we resolved to call whenever we could, and we had no better choice than to trust in that commitment.
The capacity we had built to understand each other was far more resilient than I anticipated. When he finally moved, we switched from conversations on the couch to phone calls while folding laundry or making dinner, but the fundamental vulnerability of our relationship transcended distance. Whenever something’s bothering either of us, we know we can talk it through together, because we’ve grown used to approaching uncertainty and difficult emotions with a united front. Although we can’t interact as frequently anymore, we continue to become closer than ever before, growing into ourselves and our relationship as siblings.
Ultimately, I realize that not all siblings are like this — my friends have often found it unique how close my brother and I are. By definition, being a sibling is not a choice, nor is it a mandate to be 100% involved in each other’s lives. However, my brother’s and my approach to our relationship has made me realize that whether we’re born into them or not, the relationships that we put attentiveness and vulnerability into are incredibly resilient to change. It’s this awareness that I’ve carried throughout my most cherished friendships. And it’s why, despite 11 years and 2,500 miles between us, my brother and I remain not just siblings, but best friends.
