The Women Who Helped Raise Me

Before we were women, we were just girls—crowding bedrooms, borrowing clothes without asking, fighting over bathroom mirrors, and rolling our eyes at one another as if sisterhood were something we could ever outgrow.

Back then, it was easy to believe we'd always live within a few rooms of each other. We couldn't have imagined marriages, children, careers, heartbreaks, and responsibilities carrying us in different directions. Life arrived the way it always does—slowly at first, then all at once. The years scattered us across different towns, different seasons, and different versions of ourselves.

And if I'm honest, one of the hardest things my sisters and I have ever walked through was losing our brother, Adam.

Dayna.

Heather.

Tiffany.

Kaysee.

Me.

For all of our differences, for all the miles between us, grief called us back to the same room.

There we were again—not the women life had shaped us into, but the girls who shared a childhood. The girls who knew the same stories, remembered the same laughter, and carried the same loss.

And somewhere in the middle of that heartbreak, I realized something: no matter how much time passes, no matter how much life changes us, these women still know where the cracks in my heart live. They remember versions of me that no one else ever knew. They know my sharp edges, my old wounds, my stubbornness, my laughter, and the pieces of my story that existed long before I became who I am today.

That was the last time all of us were together.

Maybe that's what sisters are.

Not just the people who share your childhood, but the people who carry it with you. The women who know your history by heart, who can find their way through the ruins when life falls apart, and who love you anyway.

DAYNA

My first sister.
Older than me by one year and three days. So close in age that people spent years asking if we were twins. We used to laugh about that, because truthfully, we were nothing alike.

She was sunlight. Athletic, brilliant, fearless, the kind of girl who could walk into a room and somehow leave with friends.

And me… quiet, shy, awkward in my own skin, usually somewhere in the background or borrowing one of her shirts without asking. That part, she hated.

But even when we fought, and Lord, we fought, she never let anyone else be cruel to me. She could pick on me herself, but heaven help anyone else who tried.

That was Dayna. My first protector. My first lesson that love doesn’t always look soft. Sometimes it looks like someone standing between you and the world. And even before I remember it myself, I’m told she used to speak for me. If she got a drink, she’d say, "Jenny needs one too." If she got a cookie, she’d say I wanted one too. To this day, I still don’t know if I ever got the cookie.

Years later, when she became a mother, she invited me into one of the most sacred moments of her life; the birth of her son. She knew what I carried quietly, the ache of never becoming a mother myself.

And without pity, without needing a long explanation, she made space for me there.

That is who she has always been.

Strong enough to fight with me. Soft enough to make room for me.

HEATHER

Four years younger than me… but in so many ways, it has always felt like we understood each other without needing to explain much at all.

We share the same mother. The same chaos. The same laughter. The same middle-child instinct
to observe before speaking, to feel deeply, to carry more than we say out loud.

When she was younger, I remember picking her up from school and driving around with no real destination—windows down, music on, trying so hard to be the cool big sister.

Heather lives in New York now.

And if I’m honest…I miss her more than I probably say out loud.

But when I look at her now— raising her boys, loving fiercely, becoming the woman she was always meant to be—I do not just see my little sister. I see strength. I see grace. And I see pieces of myself.

Because some sisters do not just grow beside you.

Some sisters carry parts of your heart with them.

TIFFANY

My mother’s youngest. The wild one. The rebellious one. And if I’m being honest… the one all of us probably spoiled the most.

Before she became fire…she was my little shadow. She followed me everywhere. And I mean everywhere.

If I was in my room…there she was. If I was outside… there she was. If I was helping with something… she only wanted me to help her too.

And I still remember that little voice of hers. Sweet. Tiny. Always calling for me. Always wanting to be
wherever I was.

These days, when I look at Tiffany, I still see that fire. But now…it’s wrapped in motherhood. In sacrifice. In strength.

And no matter how old she gets…

part of me will always see that little girl…

following me down the hallway like I hung the moon.

KAYSEE

When my mother married my stepdad, Kaysee became part of our already wild, loud, emotional little world.

At first…it wasn’t always easy. Different homes. Different rules. Different understandings of what family looked like.

And unfamiliar things sometimes looked like fighting. Clashing. Misunderstanding.

But beneath all of that…there were Barbie dolls. Imagination. And childhood. She used to tell me
that when she grew up, she was going to live next door to me. That we would do everything together.

And I used to laugh and call her my little stalker.

But looking back now…I think what she was really saying was:

"I feel safe with you."

And honestly…

there may not be a greater honor than being someone’s safe place before you even realize
you are becoming one.

DALYCE

By the time she came into this world…I was twenty.

And because she lived far away…I didn’t get the ordinary moments. The scraped knees. The school pickups. The little everyday memories that somehow become everything later.

And I think part of me has always grieved that.

When I did get to know her… she reminded me so much of myself. Shy. Sweet. Quiet. But also driven. Athletic. Brilliant.

Like some beautiful combination of Dayna and me.

And now that we are older…

we are finally getting to know each other not as children separated by distance— but as women.

Because some sisters grow up beside you…

And some sisters find their way back to you when both of you are finally ready to be seen.