Author Spotlight
Campbell Wood
Caroline Wood
As the oldest child in my family, being the leader was a role I took on naturally. I had to be the star of everyone’s life — but it was in a selfish, egocentric way. Playing pirates? I’m the captain. Dressing up like royalty? I’m the queen. Kickstarting a rock band? I’m the lead singer.
My 10-year-old interpretation of a leader was a winner. I thrived off the word “victory.” It’s safe to say my family didn’t enjoy playing a lot of games with me. I was the type to chuck the ping-pong paddle across the room when I lost and parade around the table when I won.
I hate to lose. I always have.
Of course, my biggest competition was always my little sister, Caroline, but all she ever did was scream, “Go Cammy!” at soccer games and give me hugs in the school hallways — she was always supportive, and having her as my cheerleader made me feel accomplished.
But at her ballet recitals, while most people would bring a bouquet of flowers to show support, I was the sister whose face went red with envy. Because I never wanted her to be better than me. At anything.
I measured my success on paving a path she could follow, but never live up to.
With our 16-month age gap, we had many of the same interests — whether it be journalism or student council — so I had the mindset that if I hit the brakes in any form of life, she’d overtake me. I had to “stay ahead” and lead in every facet of life. It took far too long to realize that she has her path, and I have my own — and that the key to sisterhood is supporting one another through our individual paths. Our same interests don’t mean we have to try and one-up each other, we have different strengths, and I can be the kind, big sister and support her along the way.
But before that revelation, there was only competition. And I’m not the only one who feels that way. Family therapist Michelle P. Maidenberg, Ph.D., says that a majority of firstborn children have an intense fear of failure and that nothing they accomplish ever feels good enough. Well that explains a lot.
My “intense fear of failure,” with time, shifted into a fear of failing as a big sister — as a role model. Even as I relentlessly tried to pin her down and come out on top, Caroline’s unconditional love and support were unwavering. She was always cheering me on from the sidelines, and she figured out the key to sisterhood before I ever could.
Caroline always made me feel special, despite my incompetent attitude. And when that realization finally hit me, I asked myself, “Why can’t I do the same for her?”
Being supportive is way more important than being the best, I became her partner in crime in summer gym dodgeball, her confidant for high school drama.
I’d beat myself up inside when Caroline got a better report card than me when really I should be congratulating her on her Biology grade. It shouldn’t be “Campbell, you should’ve tried harder,” but instead “Good job Caroline, I’m proud of you.”
My unsatisfied personality was harming our relationship, and when I realized that, I changed for the better. I’ve always known Caroline looked up to me, but I was too stubborn and selfish to ever do the same.
Once I learned to look up to her, a new Caroline unleashed where she was kinder and more supportive than ever.
The task of being perfect is impossible, so I’ve chosen to let my desire of winning slip away. While it frustrates me that not everyone understands the struggles of having a human sequel, I also find great pride in realizing that not everyone knows the unconditional love of having a best friend walking alongside you.
And to my discovery, Caroline makes one heck of a captain and sings the song of sisterhood better than I ever will. So what’s the true role of the big sister? Well, it’s not being a leader or being the best. For Caroline, I just have to be there for her. Not as a competitor, lead singer or gold medalist — as a sister.
When it came time for my sixth grade class to write our D.A.R.E. essays, I was sure that I would win. Campbell, my older sister, had won the contest the year before which means she was awarded a medal and got to read her essay in front of everyone at the D.A.R.E. graduation — it was an honor.
I was fully convinced that I would be the one wearing the medal and presenting my essay when my D.A.R.E. graduation came around. Campbell did it, so I would do it too.
I didn’t win. I was shocked. It took me weeks to grapple with the shame and tell my family. I thought I’d only be disappointing them since Campbell won and I didn’t.
This was the case for most events in my life: if Campbell did it, I had to do it as well.
Campbell was competitive, but also talented — she had trophies and medals lining the shelves of her room to prove it. She was my role model, yet my greatest rival. I felt the need to be just like her — trying to take each task in stride at her level, or better, and often falling short.
It’s common for two close-age, same-gender siblings to think they need to act the same. This often results in pressure on the younger sibling, which can lead them to feel “inadequate,” according to parenting specialist Sylvia Rimm, Ph.D. Having a talented older child can make a younger sibling think they need to achieve the same thing to reach a healthy level of self-acceptance and recognition.
This was me. I thought that if I wasn’t like Campbell, then I was a failure.
So I became Campbell. This wasn’t too hard since we were raised like twins. When she loved unicorns, I loved unicorns. When she played soccer, I tried to play soccer too. This manufactured desire to be just like her left little room for my own unique style and personality. In my younger years, everything I was and did was based on Campbell.
I was her clone — and for a while, I was completely content with it. It was what I was striving for.
Through most of elementary school, I was basically Campbell with shorter hair, frequently being mistaken for her and called her name by accident.
The constant comparison led me to adopt Campbell’s competitive qualities as well — causing us to constantly compete with one another.
The inequality went beyond actual competitions. When we would play, Campbell was always the lead and I was the supporting role — as if the reason for my existence was being a side character in her story.
When we were younger, we loved to play with our Polly Pocket dolls and their imaginary high school world was based on our knowledge from “Liv and Maddie” and “Austin and Ally.” Campbell took charge by deciding the plots, making her doll be the prom queen, student body president or child celebrity. It always got on my nerves — my doll was just the sideline best friend. She did nothing.
One day, I finally brought the situation up to her.
“Why does your girl always get to be cool? Let my girl do something.”
“You have to make her life interesting by yourself, Caroline,” she said. “I can’t do it for you.”
And even though it was just a small quip about toy dolls, she made me realize I needed to become my own person, not a copy of Campbell. I needed to ignore the pressure from Campbell and do things because I want to do them.
In the years since elementary school, I’ve tried to break apart from what Campbell does and do my own thing, but it’s hard since we enjoy all of the same things.
Looking at me now, it may not seem like I’ve broken apart much. We still do the same things, take most of the same classes — like Harbinger. But one thing has fundamentally changed — my mindset.
Before, I thought, “I have to do this to be as good as Campbell,” but now I think, “I’m doing this because it is something that I want to do.”
My prior outlook hurt our relationship because it led me to resent her for her achievements. Now, I look at her accomplishments and I’m proud. My outlook changed, and now I can be supportive of my big sister. But most importantly, I can be proud and supportive of my own path — self-paved.
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