I Am a Half Sibling

I am a half-sibling.

For some reason, saying that sounds almost dirty. It makes me feel like less of a person, and seems to downplay the relationships that I have with my sister and brothers. Half-sibling, to me, implies that I am only half of a person; that somehow I am not complete. Despite the various roles I have played in the lives of my siblings, I feel as though outsiders see our relationships as being somehow inferior to those shared by full-siblings. A quick Internet search on “half-sibling relationships” shows that I am not alone in feeling this way, as countless articles have been published regarding the complexities that exist within half-sibling relationships. Many other half-siblings, particularly those who met in their teen or adult years, describe having close relationships that they feel the rest off the world doesn’t recognize as being as powerful as the relationships between full-siblings. In a world filled with divorce and remarriage, it is surprising how few half-siblings feel truly welcome, important or valued in society.

My sister and I share the same mother. We are four and a half years apart and grew up living under the same roof. I was born in Dundee, Scotland and relocated back to Denver, Colorado with my mother as a child. Shortly after our return, my mother met my sister’s father and Brynn was born. I was there to hold her the day she was born, and quickly adapted to my older sister duties. I missed the opportunity to see her take her first steps because I was back in Scotland vacationing with my grandparents for the summer, but I have been there for every other major milestone in her life. I watched Brynn learn how to ride a bike, and later helped teach her how to drive. I was there for her sixth grade continuation and her first day of high school. I helped her get ready for her first date and took her shopping for her prom dress. Even though we are several years apart, she is one of my best friends.

Remembering My Nana

When I was eight years old, my Nana and I went for a picnic.

This picnic, mind you, was no ordinary picnic in any sense of the word; it was an adventure. We dressed up in ridiculous hats, sketchbooks and picnic baskets in hand and set off to discover the entrance to Whangdoodle land, a mythical place that existed in the pages of a Julie Andrews novel and in the heart's of any child who ever took the time to read it. We walked along the trails of Belmar Park and sat on the bridges and docks surrounding the lake, keeping our eyes peeled for a field of flowers or a bush that could potentially be the portal to this world that seemed all to real in our imaginations.

Our lunch that day consisted of lemon-gingers, cucumber and butter sandwiches and petite lemon cakes, some of Nana's very favorite things. We found a stone dock with a grand staircase to host our picnic on, and we sat sketching and chatting excitedly about our day while dragonflies hummed across the water and curious geese swam ever closer, hoping for a bite or two of our delicious lunch.