A Birthday Letter to My Little Sister

Happy Birthday to my little sister Lizzie — born in 1988 and somehow cooler, funnier, taller, cleaner, and faster than me, despite being younger by exactly 2 years and 8 months.

Some say we couldn’t be more different – and not just because she got the tan and I got the freckles.

She’s a minimalist. I keep receipts from 2017 “just in case.” She was gifted the abilities of math and running while I still count on my fingers and only run if someone is chasing me. Or if I agree to go on a run with her, just to spend time together, it usually turns into me gasping for air several feet behind her wondering why anyone would choose this as a hobby.

She knows every lyric to every song ever written and can somehow hear the first two seconds of a song in the car and immediately identify it like a human Shazam (remember that?). She can watch the same season of Gilmore Girls on repeat without getting bored (not me) and can purge an entire house in approximately six minutes. I cannot do any of the above.

But despite all of our differences, or maybe because of them, she has always been one of the biggest parts of my life story.

When I think about our childhood, it feels loud and chaotic in the best way. Barbies scattered everywhere. Filming music videos with our cousins. Fighting over clothes and the straightening iron. Talking in ridiculous “bits of fuzz” voices just to annoy our parents. Pretending our feet were dogs and making them talk to each other like tiny furry enemies.

Sisters are weird. But the best kind of weird.

We fought (and fight) like sisters do.

There was the time I kicked her out of bed because she was snoring and somehow she ended up with a bloody nose. There were screaming matches over borrowed clothes, the straightening iron, and rides home from school (I’m still sorry I was such a B). And yes, there may or may not have been an attempted fight involving the two of us at a UConn frat party years later.

For a stretch of our late teens and early twenties, we weren’t the best of friends. I think that happens more often than people admit. Sometimes growing up means growing apart for a little while before life slowly brings you back together again.

And thankfully, it did.

Now she’s the first person I call for literally anything and everything. Good news. Bad news. Weird news. Scary news. She’s the person who answers the phone no matter what (usually), listens without judgment (hopefully), and somehow always knows exactly what to say (even if it’s not what I want to hear).

She’s the best secret keeper I know.

The best aunt to my girls, even when she lets them buy $50 worth of squishies.

The fastest post-party cleaner on planet Earth. Truly. While everyone else is still finishing a drink, she has already cleaned the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, wiped the counters, and put leftovers away.

She loves bringing people together. She throws the kind of parties that make people feel loved and celebrated — over-the-top in the most thoughtful way. A Christmas beach-themed wedding shower. A high school-themed birthday party. Random nights out just because moms deserve to spread their peacock wings once in a while.

And she never lets me forget that.

That might actually be one of the greatest gifts she’s given me as an adult: permission to still have fun.

To leave the house.
To laugh too hard.
To dance at the party.
To go on the random car ride.
To say yes to the Sunday Funday.
To escape adulthood for a few hours when life feels heavy.

One of my newest ways to bond with her is one I genuinely did not see coming. After years of saying she’d never be a Dance Mom, she is, in fact one, and my glitter-covered dance competition co-pilot — spending weekends in convention centers, inhaling hairspray clouds and surviving off of mini alani and the promise of a post-comp cocktail.

And honestly? I wouldn’t want anyone else beside me for any of it.

The older I get, the more I realize sisterhood changes shape over time. What starts as shared bedrooms and borrowed clothes slowly becomes shared burdens, shared motherhood, shared laughter, shared survival. Even during our toughest times – some we’ve already blocked out- she has been right by my side. Just a hand squeeze (not a full hug) away – and I will never get mad that you don’t want to fully embrace during the sad moments because I need some space too.

I cannot thank you enough Lizzie – for becoming one of my history keepers. For being the person who remembers every version of me – even the messy one I’d really like to forget – just so you can show me how far I’ve come.

I love you forever, Lizzie. Thanks for always encouraging me to spread my peacock wings — and for joining me on the adventure. Happy happy birthday.