I unwrapped the newspaper to reveal my two favorite ornaments. They are both the same basic wreaths printed on cardstock paper. In the middle of the wreath is a picture of me, wearing a red velvet dress with a pair of black patent shoes. Inside the other wreath is a picture of my sister, sporting a shoulder length bob. It’s not Christmas until these ornaments are on the tree. My sister taunts me: “Your wreath is upside-down! The bow isn’t supposed to be on the bottom.” I gaze at the ornaments and focus on the differences between them. Mostly I note the big, beautiful red bow sitting perfectly above my sister’s head.

My sister is always right. That was the only thing I ever knew to be true, and it was the only thing I was confident I was right about. I am wrong, and she is right. No matter how many times my mom reassured me that it was okay to be different from my sister, I didn’t believe her. My best wasn’t half as decent as Celia’s definition of “slacking off”. For every chore I did, she did two. For every grade I received, she would score at least 20 points higher. I learned to become dependent on my sister’s knowledge at a young age. I looked to her during our ballet routines instead of confidently facing the audience and letting my feet do the work. I looked to her to see how she colored her flower examine whether it looked the same as mine, disappointed when I saw that she successfully colored inside the lines, a skill I had not yet obtained. And most of all, I looked to her for her approval and attention.

This ornament represented all the times I thought I was wrong. It embodied every one of my insecurities, ones that I worked hard to overcome. My flaws have always been everything that is perfect about my sister. She is organized, concise, and detail-oriented. Her macaroni necklaces followed a distinct pattern, mine were haphazardly thrown together collections of raw, rainbow pasta. Her meticulous tendencies doesn’t necessarily mean perfection. One December afternoon,  I looked to our Christmas tree and noticed something I never had before; the several candy canes dispersed among my sister’s wreath unmistakably resembled the handles of umbrellas, whereas my candycanes looked normal. Despite what I may have believed, I am not always wrong. I am the girl who read a book about succeeding in business at 7 years old, and I am the girl who can make almost anyone laugh.

It took me 15 years, but I can finally say I am glad that I am different from my sister and I find that it reflects in my academics, as well as my involvement in my school community. When I discovered that my ornament was in fact, going the right way it only secured my newfound confidence. I am not better than my sister, but I am also not inferior to her, and I am proud of the individuality that my ornament exhibits.