A Sibling’s Perspective
Shouka Tavakolian
Every morning, before the house fully wakes, I walk two steps over to my sister’s bed. The light is usually soft, still gray from the early morning. I lean over her bed and kiss her on the cheek.
She cannot say good morning back. She cannot sit up, stretch, or rub the sleep from her eyes the way most people do. But sometimes her gaze finds mine, and for a brief moment something passes between us: an understanding that needs no words.
My sister, Shadi, has cerebral palsy. She cannot walk or talk. Her body often feels like a prison she never chose. Simple things, like lifting her arm, turning her head, and swallowing food, require effort, patience, and 24/7 help from my mom and me. Yet if you sit with her long enough, if you really watch, you begin to notice something most people miss: the quiet language she speaks through her eyes.
Growing up beside her meant growing up differently.
Throughout my pre-adolescence, my life revolved around Shadi. Simple undertakings, such as going to the store, became difficult, as young children would whisper while adults stared. I learned early what whispers sound like when people think you cannot hear them. I learned the weight of a stare that lingers a little too long. The inescapable fact that Shadi was different marked her as a pariah.
For a long time, those moments filled me with anger. I wanted the world to see what I saw. I wanted them to understand that the girl sitting in that wheelchair was not a tragedy or a spectacle. She is my SISTER.
At home, life revolved around intimate acts of care. I learned how to brush her hair slowly so the tangles would not hurt. I learned how to hold a spoon steady while feeding her, waiting patiently for her to swallow. Sometimes I would sit beside her and talk about my day, even though she could not answer with her words. Still, I knew she was listening.
And every time I would, she would laugh.
It is not the kind of laughter people expect. It is louder, almost musical, and it arrives unexpectedly. When it happens, it fills the entire room. In those moments, it feels like the world pauses just long enough for us to share something pure and fragile.
Living with someone who cannot speak teaches you that communication is deeper than language. A glance can mean comfort. A shift in breathing can signal frustration. My sister has never said my name, but somehow she knows me better than most people ever will.
Cerebral palsy is often explained through medical charts and clinical terms: motor impairment, neurological injury, and muscle spasticity. Those words may describe the condition, but they do not capture the life lived inside it. They do not tell you what it feels like to watch someone you love struggle with things the rest of us never have to think about. They do not explain the bravery it takes simply to exist in a body that refuses to cooperate.
Yet what my sister has given me in return is something extraordinary.
She has taught me how to see people. She has taught me patience in a world that rushes past everything. She has taught me that strength is not always visible. Sometimes strength is simply waking up each morning and continuing to live.
Growing up beside her shaped the direction of my life. That path carried me to Dartmouth College as a QuestBridge full-ride scholar, where I study Neuroscience and Global Health, a journey that became the catapult for my future in medicine and my commitment to understanding the brain that shaped my sister’s life.
During Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month, people often talk about advocacy, research, and medical progress. Those things matter deeply. But behind every statistic is a person like my sister. A person with a life that deserves to be seen, understood, and cherished.
When I brush her hair or feed her Persian food, when I sit beside her and watch the tiny changes in her expression, I am reminded that connection does not always require words. Sometimes love is quieter than that.
Sometimes love is just showing up every morning, kissing your sister on the cheek, and letting her know, without speaking, that she is not alone in the world.
