Personal Story 1-
Three Things I Wish I Knew as a Sibling
My sister was ten when she was diagnosed with B-cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. I was sixteen, which meant I was old enough to understand what cancer is, but too young to know what to do with that information.
The first few weeks are blurry to me now, but one moment stays with me. A social worker came in carrying a toy doll with a toy needle, leaned over my sister’s bed, and walked my family through the treatment plan. She spoke to my parents, then to my sister, then back to my parents — handing over gift cards and hospital parking tickets as she wrapped up. On her way out, she glanced over and said a quick hi to me, and left.
I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it. She had a very sick child mid-blood transfusion in front of her and two terrified parents beside her. There was barely enough room in that moment for them, let alone for me.
I’ve lived that feeling twice now since 2023 — the first day of diagnosis, and the day when my sister had a confirmed relapse. The feelings of sadness, doubt, and isolation hit hard at the same time. But I eventually realized that letting myself burn out in the background wasn’t helping either of us; I had to protect my own mental bandwidth to provide the steady support my sister actually needed.
To pull myself out of that “default” state of being a sister, I had to stop focusing on the big, uncontrollable medical picture and start changing everyday habits that are under my control. Here are three things I learned that made a real difference:
1. Your family is your anchor.
When my sister was first diagnosed, people I hadn’t seen in years suddenly resurfaced. Flowers, calls from relatives, cards from classmates, and even friends asking whether our “fengshui” (an ancient Chinese practice of arranging space [e.g. furniture at home] to achieve positive energy flow) was right. At first, it felt warm. But I started to feel a different kind of “embarrassment” — not the kind that comes from being called out in front of the whole class. People would look at me and my parents with soft eyes and tilted heads , saying things like “you’re being so strong” or “your family is in our prayers.” And I would smile and nod, and then go home and feel strangely hollow. Somewhere along the way, my family had become the one that people talked about in a hushed voice.
I used to be proud of having a little sister — I’d talk about her easily, post photos of her, and bring her up without thinking. But after the diagnosis, she lost her hair and her face became so bloated from the hormone medication, I found it hard to mention her in front of friends or people around me. I didn’t know how to present her to people without it being cancer.
I started keeping a journal. Long entries every day, sometimes pages, full of things thatI found weird or the guilt of going to school and pretending I would be okay. It kept my head clear in a way nothing else did. Being alone with those pages became something I genuinely needed. What I didn’t expect was how my family was pulling closer together. The diagnosis stripped away a lot of noise. The small arguments stopped mattering and we started talking more honestly about the treatment, our fear regarding the effectiveness of treatments, etc.. My parents let me in on things they might have shielded me from before, and my sister and I found a closeness that busy school schedules and ordinary teenage life had never allowed before she was sick.
Cancer rewrote a lot of things about our lives. But one of the things it gave us — and I don’t say this lightly — was a deeper knowledge of each other. We learned that as a family unit, we could face something enormous and still be standing together. Whether it’s your friends, classmates, colleagues, or relatives, it is incredibly easy for people on the outside to offer judgment, advice, or labels when they haven’t walked a single mile in your shoes. Let them talk. The only narrative that matters is the one you build within your own walls. Block out the external noises and protect the unbreakable bond that defines your family’s story.
2. Stay fit — inside and out.
For a while after my sister’s diagnosis, I stopped playing badminton. For background, I played on my high school’s senior badminton team, university’s varsity team, and competed in provincial A-level tournaments. Badminton also took up about 60% of my after-school and weekend time. In my mind, there was something more pressing than showing up to practice. Wanting something for myself and taking time for something that I loved to do seemed almost selfish when my sister was going through chemotherapy.
My mom was the one who pushed back on that. She kept gently nudging me out the door, telling me to go, reminding me that taking care of myself wasn’t abandoning anyone. Eventually I listened. And getting back on the court — moving, breathing hard, being in my body for an hour — reminded me that I was still a person with my own life inside of all of this.
I started looking for other ways to show up for something bigger. I began tutoring a child whose mother had passed away from breast cancer. I became a youth advisor on a research study group looking at medical cannabis and its role in managing cancer symptoms in children and adolescents. I wanted to understand more, contribute more, do something with the helplessness I’d been carrying. Those experiences gave me knowledge, but more than that, they gave me a sense of agency at a time when so much felt out of my control.
Your needs are not less important because your brother or sister is sick. They are real. Don’t let anyone — including yourself — convince you otherwise. And don’t let anyone tell you how you’re supposed to cope through your sibling’s cancer journey, either. Some people need to cry. Some need to run. Some want to talk it out. And some need to keep themselves busy to temporarily “forget”. None of that is wrong. Find what keeps you whole, whether it’s a mission, a hobby, or a part-time volunteer work.
3. You don’t have to choose between guilt or love.
This past January, my sister relapsed. She went through CAR-T therapy this year and now back again into remission. The familiar guilt came back. Why does it have to be my sister again, and not me?
I’ve voluntarily talked to enough child life specialists and social workers now to know that this feeling is nearly universal and almost never spoken out loud among teenage siblings. Because how do you say “this is hard for me too” without feeling like you’re pulling focus from the person who is actually sick? So most of us don’t. We fold it up and stuff it deep down in our heart.
What I’ve learned is that human hearts are vast enough to hold two seemingly contradictory things at the exact same time. You can feel an overwhelming, breathless relief that your sister is back in remission, and still feel the sharp, aching sting of the trauma it took to get there. Meanwhile, you can love someone with your whole chest and still feel the guilt of being the other healthy sibling. None of those feelings cancel each other out. They coexist.
There’s no one correct way to “feel” through your sibling’s illness. Naming those emotions to yourself, to your journal, to your family, or to another sibling who says “me too” without flinching can change everything.
"To know the road ahead, ask those coming back."
Sibling Society exists because of everything I wish I knew when I was sixteen. I realized that the gap in the room — the one where sibling support should be — was something I could actually do something about.
We are an incorporated nonprofit organization built specifically for brothers and sisters of children facing serious health challenges. We offer peer connection, tailored resources, and a community of people who already understand — who don’t need you to explain this all over again, because they’ve been there too.
If you’re in the middle of it right now, or if you’re years out but still thinking about connecting with someone with the same pieces of experiences — this space is for you.
Welcome to Sibling Society.