Growing up, one of my older sisters spent hours in front of the mirror. She would practice how she smiled, got ready for dates or the day, and often sang and danced as if she were the main character in a Ciara music video. I never related to that, though I desperately wanted to. My sister and I were close. She was my very best friend and role model, which was a lot to put onto someone only two years older than I was. I don’t think she realized how much I depended on her guidance in the early years of our childhood, but without a doubt felt the burden as a young adult. I don’t blame her.

I don’t think my sister and I are as close as we used to be anymore. Well, I know we aren’t, and I’m okay with that. A part of what made me respect and depend on her was the trauma we endured together. She was older, and I naturally looked to her to know how to respond or react to a situation around me. Rarely did she ever lead me astray.

She doesn’t know this, but I think of her each and every time I sit in front of my mirror to prepare myself for a date or the day. During the early days of my divorce, I got wine drunk and would watch my body move to the music blasting through my headphones, feeling like I was the main character of anyone’s story, not only my own. I would think of how she edited her movements as she felt the music and how I began to do the same.

My sister was one of the most confident women I know. She still is, but I don’t see experience her enough to really understand how that’s evolved as we’ve grown up.

A woman I’m dating wrote about wanting to be brave, and it’s inspired me to try to do the same.

Writing these words about my sister is the first step. Talking to her is the next, but that seems so far away.

Tiff, if you’re reading this, I love you and am so proud of you. I miss you but also know you’re only a call away. I’ll call you soon, I promise.