My sister, the wellness influencer, ambushed me in my own home with ten of her biggest fans, live-streaming my horrified face for content while they told me how much they loved me.
It all started when I was finally diagnosed with a debilitating autoimmune disease after years of doctors telling me it was all in my head.
My sister immediately made my illness the new focus of her brand. She started a blog about being a “Warrior Sibling,” sharing intimate details of my worst days and promoting untested cures. To her followers, she was a hero. To our family, she was a saint.
They told me to be grateful for her support. They told me I was being negative when I asked for privacy. They couldn’t see that my pain had become her product, and my life was just the backstory for her inspirational story.
She thought she controlled the narrative, but she never imagined I’d find the receipts in her own private messages and use them to burn her entire brand to the ground on national news.
The Diagnosis: The Name for the Ghost
The name, when it finally comes, lands with the sterile thud of the thick medical file Dr. Anya Sharma drops on her desk. It’s not a relief. It’s an anchor, pulling me down into a new, unwelcome reality. For three years, the pain has been a ghost, a phantom that drifts through my joints and steals my energy, a thing my husband, Mark, could only witness and my previous doctors could only dismiss as stress.
Dr. Sharma, a woman whose crisp blazer and direct gaze I’ve come to appreciate, doesn’t soften the blow. “It’s Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disease, Sarah. UCTD. Essentially, your immune system is attacking your own healthy tissue. It’s aggressive, and it’s chronic.”
I stare at the anatomical chart on the wall behind her, a colorful map of a body that no longer feels like mine. My own body is a traitor. Mark’s hand finds mine under the table, his calloused palm a familiar, grounding pressure. He’s a carpenter; his world is solid wood and ninety-degree angles. This world of invisible wars and cellular betrayal is as foreign to him as it is to me.
“What does that mean?” he asks, his voice tight. “Chronic, like… forever?”
“It means we manage it,” Dr. Sharma says, her tone even. She pushes a stack of pamphlets across the desk. They are glossy and feature smiling, stock-photo people who are definitely not me. “Medication, lifestyle changes, physical therapy. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
My phone buzzes in my purse. I don’t need to look. It’s my sister, Lisa. Her last text, from an hour ago, read: At the doc’s?? Sending you all the positive vibes! Keep me updated, the girls are asking about you! The “girls” are her 1.2 million Instagram followers. The thought lands like a stone in my gut.
I am a university librarian. My life is cataloged, quiet, ordered by the Dewey Decimal System. I find comfort in facts, in verifiable sources. The only thing verifiable right now is the deep, grinding ache in my knuckles and the terrifying, unwritten future spooling out in front of me.
“The first step,” Dr. Sharma continues, her voice pulling me back, “is a course of high-dose steroids to shock the system and get the inflammation under control. The side effects can be significant.”
She lists them off—weight gain, mood swings, insomnia, facial swelling. Another ghost, but this one has a name, too. I nod, my throat too tight to speak. I just want to go home, curl up in the quiet of my own bed, and pretend this day never happened. But I can already feel the buzz of the outside world, waiting to rush in.
The Opening Act
The drive home is silent. Mark keeps glancing over at me, his brow furrowed with a helplessness I’m starting to know intimately. He wants to fix this, to sand it down and rebuild it, but you can’t put a nail through smoke.
In our living room, surrounded by the comforting scent of old books and lemon dust, I make the call. Our son, Leo, is upstairs, the muffled thump of his video games a normal, reassuring rhythm against the sudden strangeness of our lives. I put the phone on speaker and dial our parents first. They are shocked, worried, full of the gentle, concerned questions of people who love you but don’t know what to do.
Then I call Lisa.
“Oh, honey. Oh, Sarah. I knew it was something real,” she says, her voice already thick with performative emotion. I can picture her perfectly: pacing her pristine, white-on-white kitchen, one hand stroking her forehead for dramatic effect. “I’ve been telling Mom and Dad for years that you weren’t just tired.”
“They have a treatment plan,” I say, trying to steer the conversation toward facts, toward the concrete. “Steroids, and then we’ll move on to other medications.”
“We’re going to fight this,” Lisa declares, her voice shifting into a determined, inspirational tone. It’s her “brand” voice, the one she uses to sell electrolyte powders and promote mindfulness retreats. “This is our family’s journey now. Your journey is our journey.”
Mark catches my eye. He raises a single, questioning eyebrow. He’s never understood Lisa’s world, the curated reality she broadcasts daily. He calls it “selling air.”
“It’s really my journey, Lisa,” I say, my voice flatter than I intend. “I’m the one who has to, you know, do it.”
“Don’t be silly,” she laughs, a bright, tinkling sound that grates on my raw nerves. “A warrior needs her army! I’m going to start a blog. A place to channel all this energy, to raise awareness. We can call it ‘Warrior Sibling.’ It’s about being a support system, you know? It will be beautiful. It will be so helpful for people.”
A cold dread trickles down my spine. This isn’t a conversation; it’s a pitch meeting. My life, my pain, my scary, uncertain future, is being workshopped into content. I want to scream, to tell her to stop, but the exhaustion is a lead blanket. Arguing with Lisa is like trying to bottle a tornado. It just leaves you tired and with a lot of debris.
“I have to go, Lis. The doctor’s office is calling back,” I lie, desperate for an escape.
“Of course, honey. Rest up. The fight starts now!” she chirps, before hanging up.
The silence she leaves behind is heavy. Mark gets up and walks over to the window, staring out at the darkening street. “Warrior Sibling?” he says, his back to me. “Jesus, Sarah.”
Warrior Sibling
I wake up the next morning feeling like I’ve been run over by a truck, a side effect of the disease, not the new medication I haven’t even started yet. For a blissful thirty seconds, I forget. Then the weight of it all rushes back in.
My phone, charging on the nightstand, is lit up with an unusual number of notifications. A text from my cousin, Chloe: Wow, Lisa works fast. Thinking of you. A message from a former colleague: Saw Lisa’s post. So sorry to hear what you’re going through.
With a sense of impending doom, I open Instagram. And there it is. The top post on my feed. It’s a picture of Lisa, a selfie taken with professional-level lighting. A single, perfect tear traces a path down her flawless cheek. Her eyes are red-rimmed but full of fierce determination. The caption is a novel.
“Sometimes, life throws you a curveball. Yesterday, my brave, beautiful older sister, Sarah, was diagnosed with a debilitating autoimmune disease. To watch someone you love suffer in silence for years is its own kind of pain. But now we have a name, and now we have a fight. I’m stepping into a new role: that of a Warrior Sibling. I’ll be sharing our journey—the ups, the downs, the raw, the real—on my new blog (link in bio!) because I want every sibling, every family member out there who feels helpless to know: you are not alone. We are in this together. #WarriorSibling #AutoimmuneWarrior #Sisterhood #ChronicIllnessJourney”
She’s woven in details I told her in confidence on the phone. The years of being dismissed by doctors. The specific, crushing fatigue. She’s taken my private pain and hung it on a public clothesline for everyone to see, to comment on, to like. The comments are already pouring in.
“You are such an amazing sister!”
“So brave of you to share this story.”
“Sending love and light to your family. Lisa, you are an inspiration.”
My son, Leo, wanders into the room, his hair a mess, scrolling on his own phone. He’s sixteen, fluent in the nuances of this world in a way I’ll never be. He looks up at me, then back at his screen.
“Mom,” he says, his voice unusually hesitant. “Did you know Aunt Lisa was going to post all this?”
“No, sweetie. I didn’t.”
He just shakes his head. “That’s messed up.”
His simple, unequivocal validation is a small, solid rock in the churning sea of my emotions. He sees it. I’m not crazy. This is, in fact, messed up.
About the Author
