My Brother, the Better Creative


Drum set
Photo by Ingridi Alves Photograph on Unsplash


I’m so glad my brother is into music. 

Honestly, I’m a petty enough person that I couldn’t take it if he was into writing. I know that. I write so many articles about writing because I know how delicate the thread that keeps me going is. A stray breeze could knock this habit out of my life. 

But I want to be creative. More than anything, I want to put some kind of content out into the world and have someone care that it’s there. It’s not fame or glory exactly — probably not glory at all, because I never try to hide how much of a mess every piece of me is. But I want to see an impact from my ideas, and I’ve been told writing is a great way for me to do it. 

My brother plays percussion instead. 

Maybe you don’t think that’s a way to communicate with the world. For him it is. I’ve seen him make people smile, make people laugh, make people move with his work. 

And it confuses the hell out of me sometimes. 

See, I remember a time when all he could elicit, emotionally, were eye-rolls. The terrible two’s made an impact in our household. If you’d asked me then what he’d be when he grew up, my sassy seven year old self would tell you he’d have a great career in tv, where he could fake cry all he wanted. (he used to cry when I’d walk in a room, so I got in trouble. I’m still bitter.)

Now he’s the most motivated and self-assured person I know. 

Not all of life is as simple as “put in the effort, and you’ll succeed”. But if it was, I truly believe he’d be the most successful. My brother’s become a self-assured, responsible adult, and I’m not even sure when it happened. Probably sometime when I stopped being around to sass him. 

For most people, when you hear the phrase “college student”, you picture a mess in sweatpants, who missed their eleven am class because they hadn’t gotten out of bed. My brother seems to have the combined motivation of all those people. Constantly enrolled in extra-curricular activities, I’ve started to worry that he’s physically incapable of taking a rest. 

It hurts a little, knowing that he’s so much better at this than I am. I couldn’t even fully keep to a “one post a week” schedule. And there he is, five years younger, working non-stop, every day. I was supposed to be his example in life, not the other way around. 

Still, if I can get over the intense, aching jealousy, I may learn a thing or two. 


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