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.

The Cost of the Mask: A Forest Walk Through My Past

3-5 minute read
written on: July 22, 2025
by: Sunny Voitsekhovsky

This is the first time I’m sharing a blog that started as a raw journal entry — transcribed straight from a forest walk that turned into a heart walk. It’s more personal than usual. I hope it speaks to something in you. I hope it brings you a layer of transformation, or clarity, or comfort. And I hope I can continue writing more of these… alongside the content I create to help your business grow from the inside out.

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The other day, I wandered through a nearby forest — the sunlight danced off the leaves, and every step I took stirred up clouds of dust from the dry earth beneath me. It reminded me of childhood. That magical moment when the dirt would puff under your feet like a little smoke signal from the earth saying, "You’re here. You exist."

And yet, for much of my life, I didn’t really feel like I existed.

At least not as myself.

For years, I wore a mask.

I masked to be liked.
I masked to be safe.
I masked to avoid rejection — to avoid abandonment.

I didn’t even ask to be understood.
I just did what I could to stay chosen.
Stay wanted. Stay acceptable.

The joke, though, was on me.

Because every time I put on that mask to protect myself… I walked a little further away from my true self.

I walked in alignment with rejection.
I walked in alignment with judgment.
And that’s exactly what I was met with — over and over again.

A forest doesn’t need to mask… it just is.

When you mask your true self in hopes of being accepted,
of feeling complete through someone else… rejection becomes inevitable.

Because sooner or later, your truth surfaces. And when it does, it might not match the story others have told themselves about you (based on how you presented). And so… they leave.

I always knew this. Deep down.

I remember thinking in relationships, “Eventually they’ll see the real me.”

Not a bad version — just me.

And when they did, I believed (and feared) they'd walk away… like my dad did.

Like the echo of every time he left, the ache in my chest and that heavy pit in my stomach would remind me — see? This is what happens.

A truth I didn’t want to face, but one I kept reliving anyway.

And unknowingly, I kept recreating that pain again and again.
For many cycles — the kind you'd swear were karmic or part of some cosmic punishment…

But really, it wasn’t karma.
It was a loop I didn’t yet know how to break.

Over and over, I built connections — both platonic and romantic — where I wore the mask just right. I became exactly who they needed me to be. Until I didn’t. Until I couldn’t. Until I just was… me.

And they left.

Because it wasn’t what they signed up for. Even if that "me" was beautiful, loving, loyal, and creative. It just didn’t align with the role they’d cast me in.

♡︎♡︎♡︎

In high school, it was the same. I was the people-pleaser, the one with no boundaries, the one who made others feel better at the expense of myself. When I started shedding that version… when I outgrew the mold… those friendships fell apart.

Not because I was awkward. Not because something was wrong with me. But because I was no longer useful in the way they wanted me to be.

And yet, for years, I blamed myself.

𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟏

Later, I ended up in a relationship that mirrored the worst parts of both of my parents. Emotionally abusive, controlling, gaslighting.

He had convinced me that even my high school friends abandoned me because I was awkward, weird, too much. He chipped away at the little confidence I had left (towards the end of our relationship) — and in the process, I began to believe it too.

But the truth?

The real issue wasn’t that I was awkward.

The real mistake I made was masking so hard and so completely that even my closest friends didn’t truly know me.

So when I started to show up as the real me — soft, bold, quirky, full of feelings, needs, and boundaries — I no longer fit their narrative. And they disappeared.

That’s not my fault. That’s self-protection.

It took me years to realize this:
Masking to connect is not real connection.

And when we chase belonging by abandoning ourselves, we lose the very people we tried to keep — but worse than that, we lose ourselves.

Here’s a photo of me as a kid on the right, happily eating strawberries (my favorite fruit growing up) and a photo of me in 2023 on the left.
Even then, all I really wanted was connection. Still do. 💫

That’s what happened in that abusive relationship. The worst part wasn’t even him. It was me — abandoning me. Losing my voice. Shrinking myself to nothing.

And I thought that was just the way it was. That this was my fate. My truth. My brokenness to carry.

But I was wrong. And I’m grateful for that.

Some mistakes become fantastic realizations.

And on that walk through the forest, with the leaves glistening and the dust rising up with every step like a gentle reminder from the earth — I realized I’m not walking away from myself anymore.

I’m walking home.