Growing up as a girl in this world often means being looked at before you’re listened to. It means being noticed for the wrong things—your flaws before your feelings, your weight before your wit, your dark circles before your sense of humour. Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, people stopped seeing me as Aditi and started seeing me as a checklist. Thinning hair? Check. Tired eyes? Check. Gained weight? Definitely check.
And yet, in the middle of all that noise, there was one person—just one—who never once pointed any of it out. My younger sister. She never saw the things the world taught me to be ashamed of. She just saw me.
There’s something pure about the way a younger sibling sees you when you’re their whole world. Before society teaches them about body types, before they learn to judge, they love with a kind of clarity that adulthood forgets. My sister looked at me like I was everything right with the world, even on the days I was falling apart.
She didn’t see my body the way I did in changing room mirrors or in front-facing cameras. She didn’t notice if my jeans no longer fit like they used to or if I hesitated before smiling in photos because the gap in my teeth felt too wide. She never saw those things because she was never looking for them. She was looking for me.
And what a relief it was to be seen like that.
the weight of being seen wrong.
The first time someone pointed out my appearance as something to be fixed, I was too young to understand the full weight of what had been said, but just old enough to carry it with me. Comments about weight or skin or how tired you look have a strange way of attaching themselves to your self-worth. They start as off-hand observations and end up becoming the internal voice you can’t mute.
You don’t forget the first time you’re made to feel like your body is a problem. Like your existence must first be corrected before it can be admired. And sadly, these judgments often come from people close to you—relatives at family functions, friends who think they’re just being honest, even well-meaning adults who believe they’re offering advice.
And so, over time, I began to believe that maybe I did need fixing. That maybe my worth was conditional. On being pretty. On being thin. On being effortless.
But in our home, often in the quietest corners of the day—during late-night cartoon binges or while making her hair —my sister reminded me, without even trying, that I didn’t have to be anything other than who I already was.
Who i was to her?
To her, I was just Didi (though she never calls me that). Not “Aditi, who’s put on weight,” or “Aditi, who’s looking tired these days.” Just Aditi. The girl who knew how to braid her hair, who always saved the last bite of chocolate, who let her sleep in my bed. I could have acne or panda-eyes or a nervous breakdown—but if I offered to play with her or read her a story, she would still look at me like I was her hero.
There’s a safety in being known like that. In being loved without conditions or comparisons. In being the version of yourself that doesn’t need explaining.
She didn’t love the curated version of me. She loved the real one. The one who got angry. The one who was messy. The one who sometimes didn’t want to talk or couldn’t get out of bed on bad days. But to her, I wasn’t “failing.” I was just human. And more importantly, I was still Didi.
That label, once something I took for granted, began to feel like a title. An honor. A responsibility, yes—but also a gift. Because it meant there was someone in the world who saw me not through the lens of judgment but through the eyes of loyalty.
the guilt that comes with growing up.
And yet, I failed her too, in ways only older siblings can. When I got older and more withdrawn, she still came into my room each night asking if I’d watch something with her. If I’d color with her. If we could just sit and talk.
But I had exams. Assignments. Friends I was losing and futures I was worrying about. Sometimes, I just didn’t have the energy. And sometimes, I said no just because I could. I thought she’d always come back again the next day, ask again the next evening, try again the next weekend.
Until she didn’t.
That’s how it happens—you miss one too many moments, and suddenly the door is closed. She stopped knocking. Not out of spite, but because children are so heartbreakingly good at learning when they’re not someone’s priority.
I didn’t realize how much I’d hurt her until I tried to make it up one night, asking if she wanted to watch a movie like we used to. Her face lit up like I’d given her something she’d quietly mourned.
That smile haunted me.
Because it reminded me of how quickly we grow out of things—and how the people we love most often have to wait for us to come back.
she loved me before i loved myself.
There’s a kind of love that feels loud—roses and grand gestures and birthday surprises. But her love was the quiet kind. The kind that folds your towel before you get out of the shower. The kind that saves you the last cookie. The kind that memorizes your order at your favorite restaurant just because.
She loved me long before I knew how to love myself. Long before I understood that I didn’t need to look a certain way to be worthy of care. She didn’t love me despite my insecurities—she just never noticed them.
And maybe that’s what saved me. Because when the world tried to convince me that I needed to be more—more polished, more perfect, more palatable—she was the only one who made me feel like I was already enough.
She didn’t need me to smile all the time. She didn’t need me to be in a good mood or wear nice clothes or get straight As. She just needed me to be there.
That kind of love changes you. It softens your sharp edges. It teaches you that maybe, just maybe, you are more lovable than you’ve been told.
watching her grow up.
Now she’s older. Smarter. Beginning to see the world not just in colors but in rules. She’s starting to notice things—how girls are expected to look a certain way, how beauty is praised like it’s the currency of our worth. And I watch, helplessly, as the same world that chipped away at me begins to lay its hands on her.
She’s still silly and unfiltered, but sometimes I see her hesitating. Looking at her reflection a little longer. Asking if she looks okay. Adjusting her clothes more than usual. Comparing herself to others. And it breaks me.
Because I know exactly where this road goes.
I want to shield her from it. I want to sit her down and tell her that it doesn’t matter. That none of it matters. That her worth was never about symmetry or skin or size. But she has to learn that for herself, and that’s the hardest part.
All I can do is make sure she has at least one person who will always see her the way she once saw me.
a full circle kind of love.
Sometimes I catch her brushing my hair. Or asking to wear my old clothes. Or mimicking the way I talk on the phone. And I realize I’m still her role model—even when I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing.
That’s the thing about being an older sister. You don’t get to opt out. Whether you feel like a mess or not, someone out there is looking at you like you’ve got it all figured out.
And so I try. I try to love myself a little more. To speak more gently about my body in front of her. To stop saying “I look fat in this” or “I need to diet” where she can hear it. Because I don’t want her to inherit my self-criticism. I want her to inherit my strength.
She gave me the kind of love I didn’t know I needed. Now it’s my turn to return it.
Just Me.
In a world that’s constantly asking you to be someone else, the greatest gift is someone who sees you for exactly who you are. No performance. No conditions. No filter.
My sister didn’t love the version of me I tried to become for everyone else. She loved the version I forgot I was allowed to be. And in doing so, she gave me permission to come back home to myself.
Even now, when I feel like I’m falling short, I think of how she once held my hand and said, “You’re the best didi in the world.”
She meant it. And sometimes, that’s all I need to believe it myself.
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