Siblings & Mental Health: A Love Letter Drenched in Ache

This one cuts deep. Deeper than I ever expected.
It’s the kind of pain that lingers long after the arguments have stopped, after the silence becomes normal, and after you’ve convinced yourself you’re “used to it.”

My mental health — my beautiful, chaotic, unpredictable, healing journey — has left cracks in places I never imagined. Some people drifted. Some stood solid like trees. Some tried but couldn’t quite understand, no matter how many words I used or how much truth I poured out.

But the relationship that broke the most… the one that still leaves a lump in my throat on random Thursdays… is the one with my brother.

My big brother — my hero.
He’s always been part sibling, part father figure, part wise old sage wrapped in sarcasm.
Before my first episode of psychosis, I’d call him nearly every week. We’d talk life, love, politics, the universe. I’d lean into his logic. He’d counterbalance my wild soul with groundedness. We didn’t always agree, but we understood each other. Deeply.

Then came the shift.
Illness arrived. Not with a warning but like a hurricane in the night. And something between us changed.
The phone stopped ringing. The deep chats dried up. We became passers-by in each other’s stories.
Now it’s just quick hellos. Polite updates. Nothing like before.

And part of me gets it.
It’s hard to witness someone you love change so drastically.
Harder still when that person — me — is out here trying to heal through herbs, reiki, dance therapy, barefoot beach rituals and prayer under the moon (instead of what the world calls “proper” medicine).
And maybe it’s easier for him to keep a distance than to sit with the discomfort of not being able to fix me.

My dream has always been to make him proud.
But here’s the twist: our definitions of “success” couldn’t be more different.
He wants me in a full-time job, mortgage-ready, and preferably within driving distance.
Meanwhile, I want to live in Bali, learn tribal drumming, heal through ancestral knowledge, and fall in love with a herbalist in the mountains.
He calls me a bum. I call it “free-spirited international healing artistry.”

Sometimes I catch myself thinking,
“If I just settle down in the UK, get the job, buy the house, tick the boxes… maybe he’ll see me again. See me.”
But I know I’d lose a piece of myself in the process.
And so I float… trying to find a balance between freedom and belonging, between being understood and staying true.

But here’s the thing.
I miss him.
I miss the banter, the brotherly lectures, the way he used to call me out with love.
I miss us laughing on holiday, grinning TEETH like we had no worries.
I miss knowing there’s someone in the world who just gets me, even when I don’t make sense.

Mental health isn’t just a personal battle — it reshapes families.
It stretches love. It tests patience. It rearranges what we thought was unshakable.
And yet… love remains. Just quieter, sometimes hidden under pride or pain.

So, if you’ve got a sibling you haven’t spoken to in a while…
Call them. Text them. Send them a meme.
Or just tell them you miss them — even if they don’t respond the way you hoped.
Because sibling love? It’s messy, fierce, frustrating, funny, and holy.

And me?
I still believe one day we’ll be on that beach again, drinks in hand, roasting each other like we used to.
Grinning TEETH.

Until then, I’ll keep healing, keep loving, and keep dreaming of that moment.