Thirteen years ago, she hurled a blue plastic Fisher Price horseshoe at my nose to see if it would dangle delicately on my face. I, defenseless in my Kanga-Rock-A-Roo, was unaware of the potential danger that could have marred my little body. Weapon in hand, she squinted her eyes and adjusted her body as if she were going to win gold if she just nailed this shot. Her arm threw the toy to the ceiling and it ended up four feet to my right. I giggled and applauded her poor motor skills, and anxiously awaited her second try. Again, she wound up, and the plastic horseshoe came streaking toward me. This time, it hit. I don’t remember it hurting, but I recall my mother darting down the steps to see two streams flowing down my cheeks and my sister’s guilty eyes trying to find a way to hide her innocent game. I cried for hours, not because of the pain - that washed away with the tears. I cried because I was taken away from my big sis who was teaching me how to have fun.

Growing up, she was not only my friend, she was the person I wanted to be. So, I took up basketball in third grade, just like her, and when I reached seventh grade, I was on the A team - just like she was. I was a reasonably good player; I had the height and the stamina to charge up and down the court. But by the middle of the season, I found myself hating it. I didn’t like the girls, the coaches, or the competitiveness of the game. I pretended to be sick on random days so I could skip practice.

Eventually my mom caught on and told me that if I hated it so much, I should quit. Was she serious? I couldn’t quit! Not when my sister didn’t quit, when she stuck with everything she started. I finished the season hating each and every moment, but when it was over, I could breathe again. I realized I couldn’t do this anymore.

When, I turned to my sister, she listened. I told her that the idea of not pursuing basketball felt weird since it was the only thing I knew how to do. I told her that I was afraid of my future and that I didn’t like not knowing how to handle the rest of my life. I told her I needed her, and she was there for me.

To my 13-year-old self, this seemed like a mini-midlife crisis, but to my 17-year-old sister, the solution was simple: take a risk. She wanted me to be happy, to do something that interested me. So I did. In eighth grade I skipped basketball tryouts and auditioned for the school play. And I have never had so much fun.