Soliloquies Anthology 30.1

This is it. This time, she was really going to cut my throat. 

She stood across from me, the dinner table the only thing separating my throat from the serrated knife she was holding, her intentions painfully clear. The table provided just enough defense, one that remained sturdy regardless of her approach. She would chase me around three or four times, and then switch up on the fifth lap to catch me off guard, a predictable move that was easy enough to evade. 

We were both panting at this point, the adrenaline pumping through our veins. I watched as her eyes flicked down to the table, and I knew immediately that she was contemplating climbing over it in an attempt to corner me. It was at this moment that I understood, to her, this wasn’t a game anymore— she was seriously out for blood. It was the third time that week that I’d taken her shirt without asking, and although I’d known I was walking on thin ice that morning when I went searching in her closet, I’d thought “oh what the hell” and taken it anyway. I should’ve known it would force me into this now vulnerable position, with my seething younger sister across from me, who believed that slicing me in half was an adequate punishment for borrowing a little old t-shirt. I mean, I was totally going to put it back in her closet once I was done. Honestly, the whole ordeal just felt so dramatic. 

With only a few years between us, we were always mixing in each other’s lives, let alone our wardrobes. I know some of you may be thinking that at fifteen years old, she should be well past knife play and have moved on to respectful conversations in times of upset, but whenever she hit her breaking point, she would reach for the knife. Eventually, I had to call in the big guns (mom) to get her to back down, but I’ll never forget the pure fear I felt in that moment, not knowing what the person I considered closest to me was capable of. 

Now, for those of you who think this behavior warrants concern, clearly you’ve never had a sister. But for me, this was just a taste of my reality growing up, and honestly, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

The first piece of advice my mother gives when asked about parenting advice is always the same: don’t have six kids. I grew up second youngest in a family of six children, and let me tell you, a big family is not for the weak. But let me tell you another thing: being part of a big family can be one of the most rewarding experiences you can have. Whenever I mention the alarmingly high number of siblings I have, I often get asked: ” What is it like?” I tell everyone the same thing, which happens to be the absolute truth: I love it. In my case, there are five people who will be constants in my life, each with very different personalities and experiences. What’s beautiful about this is that at different points in my life, I will be incredibly close to some while distant from others, only for it to switch the next year. 

I love telling the story of my first heartbreak, not because I enjoy reliving it, but because it was the first time I ever got really close to my older sister. I hadn’t dated anyone until I got to university, and to say my first relationship was tumultuous would be the understatement of the century. In simple terms, I got cheated on. And it sucked. No matter how many times people tell you that it isn’t your fault (it’s not) and that it has everything to do with the other person (it does), you still feel like the lowest of the low. I’m talking absolute scum, something you would find on the bottom of your shoe or in your older brother’s closet… or at least that’s how it was for me. But the only thing that got me through that time was my older sister. We were never close growing up, but it took my first heartache for us to bond on a deeper level, because she’d gone through the same thing.

This is the beauty of having big families. Your experiences in life will never align completely with your siblings’, but having a wide range of people close to you allows you to lean on someone who understands just enough to meet you where you are. In a big family, there is always someone who has been through something similar, or is going through it at the same time, or is just far enough removed to offer perspective without judgment. That’s the thing people don’t always realize. It’s not just about having a lot of people around the dinner table, or the chaos, or even the constant noise (though there is plenty of that). It’s about the built-in support system that shifts and reshapes itself as you grow. 

My younger sister, the one who once chased me around the table with a knife over a t-shirt, is also the same person who will defend me without hesitation, who knows exactly how to make me laugh when I’m at my worst, and who understands parts of me that no one else quite gets (partly because she found and read my diary). 

Growing up in a big family means learning to navigate conflict, forgive quickly, and love people even when they drive you absolutely insane. There’s a reason why I find most of my writing to be reflective of the relationship with my family, and it’s because it teaches you resilience, patience, and, above all, connection. So when people ask me what it’s like, I could tell them about the fights, the hand-me-down clothes, the lack of privacy, or the sheer volume of personalities under one roof. But what I choose to tell them is this: it’s never lonely. It’s knowing that, no matter what happens, there are five other people out there whose lives are permanently intertwined with mine. And even with the knives and all, I wouldn’t have it any other way.