I was born 2 pounds, 2 months premature, and could easily fit in the palm of my dad’s hand. In the other palm was my twin brother. We were both born with a rare genetic blood disorder, so we spent the first few months of our lives in incubators. Figuratively and literally, we held each other’s hands through it. I don’t remember any of this, so you’ll have to trust me.
Growing up, we were nearly indistinguishable: same clothes, same haircut, same head shape. It was like looking in a mirror, except the mirror didn’t follow your movements. Having someone who understands you without explanation is a rare experience. You always have someone to talk to about your problems, you read each other’s cues, and you are bound together forever.
As the older brother, I somehow ended up smaller than him. He must have hogged all the nutrients in the womb. Contrastingly, I’ve also become the target of most of the jokes, including his running commentary on my Napoleon complex, which I’ll admit I bear a shocking resemblance to. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to a French history class in college, where I was the only STEM major.
As we got older, we began to diverge. Contrary to popular belief, twins really are different people. I pulled toward academics, while my brother developed hobbies of his own. We went to different universities, though both were in the Sacramento area. Eventually, our careers pulled us to opposite coasts. But the distance never changed how connected we are.
Here’s some of the greatest things I love about him:
He loves cats. During one of his hardest stretches, I realized he could use a companion. The best $200 I ever spent was on George, a needy tuxedo cat whose previous owner had been shipped overseas for a military mission, leaving George with separation anxiety. They bonded immediately. It was almost like they needed each other. My brother is so devoted to that cat that we spent 14 hours in downtown Sacramento on Christmas Day so he could get a chest tattoo of George in samurai armor. His logic: “I want George close to my heart.” The tattoo artist only spoke Russian, so I watched the two of them negotiate through Google Translate while I ate gummy bears.
Did I mention he loves cats? He once sat on our scorching driveway holding treats, trying to coax a neighborhood tuxedo out from under his car. Another time he brought home a kitten he found in his work parking lot. George did not approve. Thankfully, the kitten was eventually adopted.
He cares about what matters to him, and not much else. He works hard and is an excellent supply chain buyer, but he draws a clean line between his job and his passions. As a researcher, I’ve struggled to disconnect my identity from my work, so it’s refreshing to watch someone clock out and mean it.
What he does care about is fashion. His style puts my five white Uniqlo T-shirts to shame, and when your brother owns 70 pairs of shoes, you rarely have to buy new ones. Especially when you share a shoe size. One of the quiet perks of being a twin is inheriting a wardrobe I never had to build.
I didn’t fully understand how deep his passion went until we went to a sneaker convention in Santa Clara. Until then, it was something I’d only heard him describe. Walking in was like seeing the pictures in his head come to life: hip hop thumping through the speakers, walls of shoes in colors I didn’t know sneakers came in, a whole culture that felt like the Miles Morales Spider-Verse movies stepping off the screen. Everyone around us was wearing their personality, and my brother moved through the crowd like he belonged there, because he did.
I also got to watch him work. He had pairs he hoped to sell, and he haggled with buyers who pushed back hard. He held his ground, never lost his cool, and never lowered his price. In the end, he didn’t sell a single pair. He didn’t mind one bit, because it meant he got to keep his shoes. It was the same guy who negotiates for a living, except this time the deal didn’t matter. He was there for the shoes, not the sale.
We also spotted Stephen Curry that day. Honestly, he seemed surprisingly normal, as unremarkable as anyone else in the crowd. The most interesting person I watched all day was my brother.
He’s always shown up for me. Siblings can be annoying, but in the best way.
A few years ago, I was struggling with a terrible manager at a job I absolutely despised, and I was living in the middle of nowhere in Arkansas. My anxiety was at its worst. Every Sunday evening, the dread would creep in a little earlier, and on top of it sat the distance from home. So he flew out. He didn’t have a plan or a fix, just a willingness to be there. He slept on an air mattress in my apartment and kept my mind off the stress that followed me home from writing code every day.
For being in the middle of nowhere, we managed to make our own adventures. One day we went mountain biking, even though he hadn’t touched a bike in over a decade. Let’s just say it didn’t go smoothly. He came within inches of breaking his neck. Somehow he walked away with only a big scar across his forehead, and when we returned the bikes, the rental worker asked if he was Harry Potter.
The rest of the trip was gentler. We found a speakeasy hidden inside an art museum, where I drank the most overpriced pina colada of my life. We ordered Chipotle’s honey lime chicken three days in a row, with no regrets and no variety. And one night, we stumbled on a random basketball court and shot hoops well into the night, using deflated basketballs we’d found by the local creek.
Did I forget to mention George was there? My brother carried all 15 pounds of him through five hours of travel. As an indoor cat, George spent most of the time hiding under my bed sheets. We rode my electric scooter around the Walmart parking lot, hitting 20 mph whenever we found a downhill stretch, and made ice cream runs to the local convenience store. George repaid us by leaving a present in his litter box 🐱.
I opened this post by comparing my brother to a mirror, one that never quite moves the way I do. For years I thought of that as a joke. Now I think it’s the whole point. If he moved exactly like me, he couldn’t have shown me what a life looks like when work is only one part of it. He couldn’t have taught me that you can care deeply about something and still walk away from a sneaker convention with every pair you came with, perfectly happy. A reflection can only show you what you already are. A brother who moves differently shows you what you could be.
He never sat me down to explain how I should live. He just lived differently, and being around him helped me see that I could, too. I think that’s one of the strange privileges of having a twin. You spend your whole life looking at someone who could easily have been you, only to discover that the differences between you might be just as valuable as the similarities. I’m grateful that I’ve had someone beside me all my life who reminds me there are other ways to approach it.
