My Sister Taught Me to Believe in Myself— Even When the World Tried to Silence Me

3-5 minute read
written on: July 23, 2025
by: Sunny Voitsekhovsky

This blog started in the comfort of my own home—curled up on a blue double camping chair in our living room (the couch is still on its way).

From there, it followed me through every corner of our 500-some square foot apartment, as I wandered and let the words flow through speech-to-text.

At some point, I drifted to the ladder (which is our temporary "bar stool” so I could paint the seashells I found on the beach with Megan.

Another portion was written during a quiet walk with my dog through our neighbourhood and the nearby forest trails. It began as a raw journal entry, and slowly became something I felt ready to share.

And to be honest, something I felt called to share, and that needed to exist in a place for when you’re ready. When you’re ready, these messages will find you; they will show up for you, like a magical sign from God. So trust that when you’re reading this… it is the perfect time.

What can I say? I move around a lot.

It’s more personal than usual. But I hope it speaks to something in you. I hope it offers a moment of clarity, comfort, or even transformation.

I’ll still be writing content to support your business growth from the inside out—but I’m also allowing myself to share more of this.
The human stuff. The soft stuff. The stories that shaped me.

Also, if you’re wondering why neighbourhood, colour and honour are spelt this way… I am Canadian… what can I say?

What’s a blog without humour?… there I go again… being Canadian.

She held me like I was the most precious thing in the world… and she still does. The wallpaper? Let’s just call it ‘vintage character. I love this photo of us.

Without further ado.. Let’s get into the blog…

You know what I found myself thinking about today?

That my sister never once questioned whether I was enough.
She only ever asked me to be better if I was being an asshole or a drama queen (and let’s be real, for preteens and teenagers, that’s not exactly rare).

But she never made me feel small—aside from maybe that one fight we had.
She never made my dreams feel too big or made me feel like I was too much.

And that meant everything to me.
Because with my parents, I often felt overlooked. Misunderstood. Too much and not enough, all at the same time.

I remember feeling “stupid” as a kid.
Teachers made me feel that way.
My mom made me feel that way.
And my dad? He never once complimented my intellect.

But my sister…
She was the one person who consistently encouraged me.
She’d say things like, “You can have anything you ever dream of”, “You can have whatever you want.” Essentially saying… “It’s all accessible to you.”

Which is wild to think about—because we grew up really poor.
How did she have that kind of mindset?
How did I get so lucky to have a big sister… her… by my side?

I guess every kid needs one “normal” guardian.

Not dysfunctional, I mean…

Stanley Park, where my sister perfected her lifelong role as my bodyguard. In this moment, I was determined to stick my finger in a goose’s beak. She was determined to keep me alive. I still have the toxic trait of believing I’m Snow White and wild animals will love me (and not eat my head off).

As a child, I dreamt wildly. I wanted to go to Disneyland. I wanted to be an astronaut. Then, at six years old, I decided I wanted to be a business owner.
I wanted to be the first millionaire in my family.

I’d stare at myself in the mirror and imagine a life where I had so much money, I could just give it away—to artists, to galleries, to the people I believed in, and to those who needed it most.

And even if my sister didn’t always know the specifics of my dreams…
She made me feel like they were possible.

Somehow, one person believing in you, fully and without condition, can change everything.

She was the first person who made me believe I could achieve anything I set my mind to.

She never questioned my worth.

She never doubted my capabilities—not once, not even when it came to my art.

She held space for my dreams long before I dared to claim them myself.

Airport day — our big, unexpected ‘adventure.’ I’m grinning because I have no clue we’re being deported, moving across the ocean, and I’m about to lose my bodyguard to a world where I’ll be left with one emotionally unavailable adult and one… let’s just say, questionably mature. Ah, childhood — such a ride.

Right now, I’m sitting here painting seashells. I’m in flow. Art—of any kind—is my portal (you can check out my art here). It reconnects me to my truth.

And the truth is... It’s cheesy, but it’s real: My sister is the first reason I began to believe in bigger things, bigger possibilities and a bigger future for myself and the whole family.

Sure, she had high expectations. I remember studying for a spelling bee and her pushing me to get every word right. But her discipline came with encouragement. I was never made to feel like a bad person for making mistakes.

She never said:
“You’re broken.”
“You’re a problem.”
“You’re too much.”
“You don’t belong.”

But I’ve heard those words and felt those de-affirmations deeply before—too many times. More times than I can count.

I grew up with a mother who struggled with postpartum psychosis. She didn’t recognize us after I was born.

My sister, at just 16, stepped in to raise me. She had every reason to turn bitter... but she didn’t. She chose better.

Our mom believed poverty was permanent. That people like us didn’t stand a chance. Her fear lived in survival mode. And she passed that fear onto me like a family heirloom.

Ah, another Canadian beach day where the geese roam free. Batman action figure in hand — my childhood favourite superhero… though now I’m more into Marvel and the femme superheroes (with a soft spot for Spider-Man). And yes, that towel I’m wrapped in? Still around. It’s now our rescue dog’s beach towel.

But my sister? She broke the cycle.
She chose belief.
She chose love.
She chose me.

She taught me that dreams weren’t handed to anyone—but they were possible. That no one was coming to save me, but that didn’t mean I was powerless.

And while she held hope for me, I was surviving our mother.
A mother who didn’t like it when I was happy.
Or sad.
Or expressive.
Or queer.
Or neurodivergent.

I tiptoed through childhood like a ghost—watching her every move, shrinking myself to stay safe. I mirrored. I masked. I made myself small. I was terrified of being cast out. Terrified of being me.

If you haven’t read The Cost of the Mask: A Forest Walk Through My Past, you definitely should.

I was about 8 here — finally living in Canada, while my parents were still chasing that elusive Citizenship. (Spoiler: We got it when I was 17… and the first thing I did was book a Disneyland trip with my friend at the time - Josh.) Also, can we talk about how nearly every 90’s photo gave me creepy demon eyes? People back then were way too obsessed with the camera flash.

I came out in 2019. But I knew who I was much earlier.

I remember watching t.A.T.u.’s All the Things She Said on MuchMusic when I was eight. I was mesmerized. Two girls—loving each other. And for the first time, something clicked. I felt seen. I felt understood.

Then my mother appeared behind me. She crossed her arms and glared at the screen. “What an abomination,” she said. “If my daughter were gay... I don’t know what I’d do.”

And in that moment, I shrank.
I stopped trusting myself.
I learned that being who I was could cost me everything.

So I masked. I pretended. I became a “straight girl” to survive.

Because if I wasn’t what she wanted, I believed I would be discarded. Just one less mouth to feed. One less burden. One less space in a rental unit.

That’s how I learned not to take up space.
That’s how I forgot who I was.
That’s how I learned that authenticity wasn’t safe.

But here’s what I know now…

Masking is a betrayal of self.
Authenticity is the only way forward.
And believing in yourself isn't delusional—it’s defiance.

My sister taught me that.

She saw my light when others tried to dim it. She gave me room to grow into myself. She loved me before I knew how to love myself.

And I’ll spend the rest of my life honouring that—through my art, my words, my queerness, and my unapologetic existence.

If you got this far, drop a blue heart emoji in the comments.