“W“How are you fat, and why is she skinny,” asked a puzzled middle-aged man, as my identical twin brother Katy and I walked into a restaurant in central Mumbai for a post-yoga samosa. It wasn’t the first time we’d been asked this question, but each time it hurt just as much, fueling decades of resentment toward my sister, who was always told she was better looking than me.
As children we reveled in our identicalness and were joined at the hip. Physically, the only way people (even family members) could tell us apart was by our face shape. I had a slightly rounder face than Katy, with chubby cheeks that earned me the nickname Chipmunk growing up. Katy and I got the same grades, had the same interests, and received identical gifts on birthdays and Christmas – but in different colors. We were inseparably ‘one’.
But when we were thirteen, the cracks started to show. In high school, we reluctantly agreed to be split into different classes, forcing us both to stand on our own two feet for the first time. As the more naive sister, I trusted that our separation would be good for us in the long run—that it could help us forge our own individuality within our proximity. Katy, on the other hand, struggled with her newfound independence.
It started with skipping a meal here and there and taking an extra walk around the block during lunch. After a few months of restrictive dieting and obsessive exercise, Katy started losing weight, and a close family member noticed the stark difference in physical appearance between the two of us. Suddenly we were no longer identical.
For the next seven years, Katy was in and out of psychiatric wards across the country, being treated for anorexia. I expressed my sadness through frustrated, tearful outbursts in which I begged her to “just eat, like a normal person.” I visited her after school, on weekends and during the holidays, feeling abandoned, lost and rejected. We call this period of our lives the years we “hated” each other. I hated the fact that I couldn’t live my life like a “normal” teenager, and she hated how much I hated her.
When Katy recovered, our relationship improved. But the comments about our physical differences persisted, and they started to affect me. One guy at a party even had the nerve to say to his friend within earshot, “I’m more attracted to Katy because she’s thinner than Lara.” During our trip to India, we tried to repair our difficult bond and take a yoga teacher training course together – but the comments followed us there too.
I realized that all the resentment I had harbored for the past seven years was beginning to express itself in a self-destructive and toxic way. I started to hate myself. I felt less than, invisible, and defeated by my sister’s illness; like I could never be enough just the way I am. I harbored fantasies that she would always be the more attractive, thinner twin that everyone gathered around. My self-esteem had evaporated and I started losing weight. We were competitors for two years.
But when our father died three years ago, it was like a switch turned on in my head. I realized that life was too short to keep comparing myself to my sister and tying my identity and self-worth to our identity.
I read self-help books religiously to try to improve my body image and self-esteem Health in every size And Women don’t owe you anything. I listened to podcasts like It’s like diet culture and ritualistic, hair-raising daily affirmations I performed in the mirror.
Now when people comment on our differences, the result is like night and day. Sometimes I still feel insecure, but there are also more liberating moments when I think, “What’s wrong with being bigger than my twin?” It wasn’t until I stopped feeling victimized by others’ judgments—which are ultimately beyond my control—that I finally stopped comparing my weight, size, and perceived attractiveness to my twin sister. By doing this, I was able to regain the self-confidence I once had, and finally allow our twinship to truly flourish.
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