Growing up, it was your seniority in the household that got you the passenger seat next to mom while driving to the grocery store. (Personally, that was my favorite thing about being the older sister.) It was your ability to push them out of your favorite spot on the couch, because you were bigger, and they couldn’t stand a chance. You’d become so annoyed when you ordered one scoop of vanilla ice-cream on a cone, and would hear them repeat, one scoop of vanilla ice-cream on a cone, please! It was telling them that their outfit looked hideous, because they were eight years old and honestly thought that leopard print sweat pants went with a striped shirt.

As I got older, the complexity of my role in the family became vivid. I realized that being an older sister wasn’t just to harass my younger siblings and toughen them up. I was a role model, I was a leader, and I was the girl that they compared everyone to.

I began to appreciate when they would repeat things I would say, and learned the value in my words. My views and the way I treated people were watched with a microscope. I had two very special young ladies who wanted to be just like me. I kept to my morals, and I tried to not be the girl that had dirty rumors circling. When asked about what I was doing, I was no longer annoyed. Rather, I was excited to explain my hobbies and would secretly hope that they would grow to love these same things.
Late nights sneaking into the kitchen past our bedtimes, to steal cookies from the cookie jar, became nights spent crying with tubs of ice cream, explaining that the boy that broke her heart was a total jerk, and you just knew he wasn’t good enough for her.

Having to annoyingly babysit them in the mall with your friends, because it was the only way your mom was going to let you walk around alone, was the worst. Now, there is nothing more fun than a girls’ day with your sisters; shopping, grabbing some Panera Bread, and taking a bunch of selfies on Snapchat.

Making fun of the way she would match pink and purple together becomes, “damn, you actually look really good, today!” and then silently taking credit for her great sense of style.

Then secretly wondering if she maybe, just maybe, dresses better than you.

You slowly find yourself becoming their mother.

“Do your homework before you leave!”

“I’d love to stay up and talk, but you need to get to sleep. You have a track meet, tomorrow.”

“Are you absolutely sure you want to walk out of the house wearing that?”

You’re their watch dog, and you don’t completely mean to add your two cents, but you just can’t help it. You know that her new boyfriend, John, is no good for her. You can just tell that her new friend Carla is a liar; she reminds you of this girl you had plenty of arguments with in middle school.

Having younger sisters, I’ve found, is equivalent to having built in best friends. They loved me through my weirdly obsessive Jonas Brothers stage, so I’ll love them through their craze for One Direction.

Okay, no, I love them, too.

They loved me when I cried over the first guy who broke my heart, when they were at an age where they didn’t even understand, so I will love them through their break-ups and give them the best advice I possibly can.

As their older sister, I know it’s my responsibility to be a girl they can look up to in a society where it’s difficult to find a decent role model. It’s my duty to show them their potential and to never allow them to settle for anything less.

Above all, being an older sister is one of God’s greatest blessings to me. I am largely who I am today thanks to the beautiful friendship I have with my two younger sisters.