The Distance We Don't Talk About

My sister sent an email once to our whole family, outlining who would be the guardian of her children if something happened to her and her husband.

It wasn't a legal document, but it felt like one. Formal. Final. A plan in writing.

I wasn't on the list.

There was no conversation before. No conversation after. The relationship must have felt so obviously distant that no conversation was needed. Of course it wouldn't be me.

My brother is the same. I'm not trusted to watch his children. I'm not on the list to pick them up from school. I'm not trusted with any significant oversight.

I tell myself it makes sense. Different cities. Different parenting styles. Different lives. But it says something, doesn't it? Something about how we see each other. About the quiet distances that have grown between us, even as we still call each other family.

I always thought family was everything. Not in the Hallmark-card sense, but in the way that, if the world fell apart, these were the people I'd call. My parents, my siblings, their families. My "ride or dies."

I never really pictured what that would look like as we all got older. I just assumed we'd be close. Maybe even closer.

And in some ways, we are. My sister is basically my best friend. But even with her, there are things I can't say. Things I won't say. Because she has a way of making it so that if you're not on the same page, then you aren’t in the same book. I'm afraid that if I share a tiny bit of moderation, or play devil's advocate on something I don't feel that strongly about, she might stop being friends with me.

And the idea of losing my best friend over something so small seems absolutely silly. So I just avoid certain topics altogether, because I don't really know where the line is.

There's a part of me that wonders how strong our friendship actually is if she could drop me over something that, in my mind, is not crucial for a friendship. And if I extend that out further, if my best friend is willing to drop me over something so inconsequential, how good are my other friendships really?

I don't seem to be anyone's first call. Even my closest friends have closer friends. I'm always in what I think of as the "second circle." Present, but not primary.

The pandemic made the distance with my siblings more visible. My brother wouldn't help me move a couch because he didn't want to come into our house, only to then have a larger outdoor party that seemed much less safe to me. I didn't know how to read that situation.

Then there was a time when your mom didn't include them in a birthday event, primarily because their son couldn’t be vaccinated yet and she was worried about what that meant for you.

While those are just two specific examples, both situations felt like overreactions to me. They showed how there were lines we didn't want to cross, in my mind, because relationships weren't worth the risk.

I know it's way more nuanced than that. But it just felt like the first time that both sides showed who they're willing to be risky for, and who they're not.

Maybe it's not a tragedy. Maybe it's just the truth of growing up, of building our own families, of loving people fiercely but also honestly. Maybe "ride or die" doesn't mean what I thought it did.

Maybe that's okay.

But here's what keeps me up at night: what we model for you. You don't have siblings, Lyla, so your experience of family will be different than mine. But you're watching how I navigate relationships. How I handle distance. How hard it is for hard conversations not to happen.

And I see the beginnings of distance with you, too.

Not pulling back, exactly. But there are things you don't trust me with. Things you share with your mom that you never share with me. Things I need to know, like when you scraped your knee at school one day and didn't want to tell me about it. I still don't know why.

There are other times where it makes more sense to me, especially if you think I'll get upset or want to have a conversation about something you'd rather avoid. And that kills me.

Because I did that. Clearly there must have been a reaction I had, a conversation I created, that made you want to avoid me. I did that. And I wish I didn't.

Right now, you still run to the garage to tell me you love me when I'm leaving for work. Sometimes when I get home, as soon as the garage door opens, you run out, jump in the car, and start telling me about THE THING that you’re enjoying in that moment. The genuine excitement to spend as much time together as possible—it melts my heart.

But I'm terrified that someday, you'll only want your nuclear family. Your own family. And I'll be in the "second circle" with you, too.

It would pain me to no end. But I'd also be proud that you made a decision for your own happiness, despite whatever obligation you might feel. And I hope I don't put that obligation on you.

Here's what I want you to know:

You don't owe me closeness. You don't owe me anything. The world doesn't owe you anything either. Despite not owing anything, we do things anyway, because it's what we want to have happen, because we care at a different level, because we choose to. But not because we owe someone.

I want to be close to you for the rest of my life. But I would never want to force spending time with me upon you if you didn't want that too.

Closeness, to me, means wanting to spend time with each other despite differences. Being okay with vulnerability. Trusting each other to look out for each other. Making time for each other. And in your case, I hope it means unconditional love from you to me, because I know it means that from me to you.

But I can't build that alone. And I can't assume it will just exist because we're family.

My siblings and I loved each other. We still do. I love them so much. But somewhere along the way, we stopped building the kind of closeness that would make us trust each other with our children. We stopped having the hard conversations. We accepted distance as inevitable instead of fighting for something deeper.

I don't want that with you.

So if there's ever distance between us, if you feel it growing, if I've done something, if there's something you need from me, I'm asking you to name it. Don't let it sit in silence like I did with my siblings. Give me a chance to understand. Give me a chance to change.

I'm willing to change pieces of myself to ensure we have a strong relationship. I don't say this lightly. There are very few people I'd be willing to change for. But you're one of them. You always will be.

I don't want you to fall into obligatory relationships. I don't want you to feel you have to be close with anyone out of etiquette or expectation. Be real with yourself. Prioritize yourself. But while doing so, also love other people. See and accept people's flaws, so long as those relationships don't turn toxic or abusive or one-sided.

And if you ever feel distance with me, reflect on why. If you feel comfortable, call me. Come visit me. Ask me to visit you. I don't think there's anything in life we can't work out with conversation. But we both have to want the closeness for that to work.

I hope I never do anything to compromise that want from you.

What I'm learning is this: family closeness isn't guaranteed by blood or proximity or history. It's built. Actively. Vulnerably. With hard conversations and grace for each other's flaws.

I failed to build it the way I wished it had been built with my siblings. Maybe we all did. And I'm terrified I'm failing with you.

But I want you to know, I want to build it. I'm trying. And if I'm messing it up, I need you to tell me.

Because you're worth changing for. You're worth the risk of vulnerability. You're worth fighting for closeness, even when it's not guaranteed.

I just hope you'll want to fight for it too.

But even if you don't, even if someday the distance grows and you choose your own path, I want you to know: I tried. I saw what happened with my siblings, and I tried to do better with you. And that trying, that fighting for closeness, is worth it whether or not I succeed.

Because you're worth it. Always.