When Chinasa* (24) lost her older sister, Lilian*, in a sudden, tragic accident, her world cracked open. In the years since, she’s been quietly trying to piece herself back together—navigating grief, guilt, and the impossible task of stepping into shoes that were never hers to fill.
As her family mourns the daughter they lost, Chinasa battles the unspoken pressure to become just like her — cheerful, accomplished, perfect — even when it costs her the chance to be herself.
This is Chinasa’s story, as told to Betty.
When my older sister, Lilian*, died in a freak bike accident, my entire life flipped inside out. She was everything — golden girl, the first daughter, the family star, you name it. She was already in her final year studying accounting, with her ICAN certification. On top of that, she was a budding actress and model, and carried herself with an effortless kind of beauty. Lilian was popular. People knew and loved her everywhere she went. Even at home, she shone and the rest of us just existed in her glow. She was, by all accounts, the perfect firstborn daughter.
I never minded living in her shadow, though. In fact, I enjoyed it. It meant I could coast as the middle child. Nobody expected much from me, not with Lilian taking on all the pressure and carrying the first daughter burden. I got to do my own thing without pressure. No one placed me on any pedestal since my sister was already there. But the moment she left us, all the attention shifted to me. Worse, everyone started acting like I now had to live up to the version of her they still held on to.
I didn’t want any of it.
At her burial, everyone poured their grief on me. They kept talking about how wonderful she was and how painful it felt to lose her. I didn’t know how to tell them that I was already aware in a way that no one else could possibly understand. She was my only sister. Even after her death, my brothers still had a sister. Me? I had no one.
I felt so bad for our mum. We’d already lost our dad many years before. Losing Lilian felt like salt in a wound that had only begun healing. Her death broke my mum. Once, in her grief, she told me she wished I had died instead. It didn’t even hurt it at the time. I wished the same thing, too. But that comment still sits in my chest like a stone, even though I now have a better understanding of how heartbroken she was.
After Lilian died, I was “promoted” to first daughter and that’s when everything started feeling heavier. Suddenly, everyone expected me to hold the house together, to be cheerful, outgoing, sociable — everything Lilian had been. But I’m not her. I’ve never been her. Yes, I’m bubbly and charming, but in my own way. I don’t want to be the centre of attention. And it’s exhausting pretending I even want to try.
Family gatherings are the worst. Someone always finds a way to bring up Lilian — , how proactive and energetic she was. I visited an aunt once who said she missed having Lilian over because unlike me, she was jovial and had so much energy. Some of my extended family members act like I’ve had enough time to move on from grief. But how do I get better when I still feel so raw? Now, I avoid them when I can. I’d rather keep my distance than sit there and get reminded again and again that I’m not my late sister.
My relationship with my mum is complicated. I know she’s trying. She reaches out and tries to be closer, but there’s a subtle friction between us. We weren’t so close before my sister passed. Between the normal teenage frustration, the chores I didn’t want to learn, and my years in boarding school, we never really got the chance to bond. Sometimes, I think she sees me as the one who survived when the ‘better daughter’ didn’t. How do you build a bond from that starting point?
Still, I don’t blame her. She’s a good woman, a wonderful mother. And she’s been through more pain than any parent should ever know. That comment — the one about wishing I had died — I don’t think she meant it. Or maybe she did, in that moment. I don’t know. I just know it changed things between us.
The only person I ever opened up to about all this was my friend, Diana*. She’d also lost someone, so we cried together. Not just about what we’d lost, but about how much heavier everything becomes after. There was something comforting in that. Just sitting with someone who gets it. No advice, no comparisons. Just presence.
Losing someone like Lilian doesn’t get easier. It’s not a phase or a season. I carry it every day, and I try to live in a way that honours her. I know she loved me exactly as I was. She never asked me to become someone else.
Each time I remember her, the pain comes back like it never left. I hate that she left me behind. I hate that people expect me to fill shoes that were never my size in the first place. I take each day as it comes, and I hope that eventually, it’ll get better.
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