1,066 days. That’s the gap between my brother and me—a number that seems substantial until you realize how little space exists between being yourself and being someone’s shadow. We all know that feeling: when our identity gets lost in the expectations set by others. But for me, it started with a number.
My older brother’s name is Arthur. I’m Christopher—Chris, if you prefer. I don’t have a preference; in case you are wondering.
Names fascinate me—the patterns parents weave into them, the identities they shape, the pride they carry. There’s that old cliché: “You can take everything from a person, but you can never take away their name.”
So, why was it that the first name I’d hear back after introducing myself to people wasn’t my own?
“Oh, nice to meet you, you must be Arthur’s brother! He was an amazing student—you’ll be just fine in this class.”
My name is Chris, though.
Countless variations of this response from teachers, peers, friends and even strangers still echo through my head because, in those moments, I felt as though a part of me was stripped away, reduced to an extension of someone else.
I was too young to articulate my clouded thoughts, but I distinctly remember that amongst the turmoil of resentment, envy and confusion, there was also a sense of pride.
“It’s easier to see the silver lining than to acknowledge the storm.”
I chose to harp on the pride and shove aside the feelings of strife within my own identity. There was a miserable comfort in hiding behind the validation of the endless compliments I received from people, without ever needing to be any more than Arthur’s brother. A sense of guilt always plagued me because, deep down, I viewed myself as undeserving of this praise: it was merely a projection of Arthur’s excellence onto me. Yet, I never acknowledged it because everything seemed so simple growing up.
What’s the point of discovering myself when everyone already loves Arthur?
Arthur was, by every measure of the word, a natural: thriving academically, possessing an unwavering sense of social awareness and playing the violin with a tenacity I had always admired.
He was the trailblazer, and who was I? The cautious traveler who walked behind, carefully placing my footsteps where he had already landed. The terrain was familiar, worn smooth by his successes, leaving no room for the jagged edges of uncertainty. But something is unnerving about following a path that’s already been paved—it doesn’t require you to question where you’re going.
“Ignorance is bliss.”
I sat idle growing up—driven but not ambitious, eager but not curious. An insatiable hunger for approval followed me; the more success Arthur had in his life, the deeper I fell into the hole of endless expectations and demands. I didn’t challenge them; I simply let them shape me, never questioning if they were my own. His accomplishments became benchmarks I could never seem to reach. And yet, I never voiced my frustration. Instead, I let the praise heaped upon me for being his brother wash over me, a comfort I didn’t realize was fleeting.

What is it like being Arthur’s brother?
I’m confident in myself. Sure, Arthur pushes me to be better, but everything I do derives from intrinsic motivation, not external pressures. Arthur merely acts as a source of inspiration for the opportunities I pursue.
What is it like being Arthur’s brother?
I have moments where I find myself doing things because of him, but I’m proud of what I have achieved and believe I have grown into a person who makes choices best for my well-being.
I think.
What is it like being Arthur’s brother?
It’s lonely.
3 questions. 3 answers. 3 years of high school.
Being so close to—yet never quite being able to step into—his space, I existed in the in-between: close enough to witness his successes but distant enough to feel like an outsider looking in. The walls between us were thin, yet they bore the weight of everything unsaid: admiration, resentment and the quiet ache of comparison.
My bedroom sits adjacent to Arthur’s, tucked into a small, tight corner upstairs. It’s not the larger room, and it doesn’t have the beautiful lunette window overlooking the front yard as his room does, but still, I love my room. It always seems much cozier than anywhere else in my house, characterized by a constant and comforting warmth washing over it. I’ve always been fascinated by architecture: how the most intricate details and delicate connections work together to form stability. It’s amazing how one crack in the foundation can cause everything to crumble.
“Losing teaches you what success can’t.”
It’s funny how life works. You always manage to discover things where you least expect them. During my junior year, I lost the vote for student council president at my high school. I know, I know, really devastating. But, to be completely transparent, that loss became my most liberating moment.
For my entire life, I had measured myself against Arthur’s successes, adopted others’ expectations as my own and let comparisons define me. Losing the presidency was a reality check; it was a forceful, unanticipated shove off a path I had mindlessly followed my entire life. Suddenly, I had to question everything: my goals, my worth and the metrics I used to judge myself.
For the first time, I realized how toxic it was to base my identity on someone else’s achievements. It wasn’t just about being Arthur’s brother anymore—it was about the universal weight of comparison we all carry, whether it’s siblings, peers or the countless faces on social media.
It’s easy to think that losing means failure—I tread my entire journey up to that point believing this—but the truth is that stepping away from the expectations of others allows you to find yourself. In that loss, I discovered the power of self-definition, unburdened by comparison. People value uniqueness, so there’s no point in measuring your success against someone else’s. I stopped looking to others as the benchmark of my worth and started valuing myself for what I wanted to become. I still find the lines blurred between authenticity and conformity, but I’ve never been so sure about one thing: deviation isn’t just freedom—it’s the first step toward becoming who you’re meant to be, not who others expect you to be.

Examples of other siblings at LHS: