I have a sister, and her name is Nick. It’s short for Nicole. Her second name, Nancy, is the same as my mother’s. Nick has a short blonde shag. She has dark eyebrows and long eyelashes. Her face has seen many piercings come and go, some leaving more permanent marks than others. Her body is graced with dainty, complementary tattoos. She has impeccable style, and great taste in fun.

Nick is dramatic and convincing. She is sensitive, anxious and goal-oriented. She is extraordinarily animated in her facial expressions and hand gestures. Whenever we go out, I’m in awe of her. She’s a nineties-chic boss, grungy and true to the decade she grew up in, crossed with a twenties-style starlet, cloaked and draped in fabrics, smoking herbal cigarettes at midnight and making friends with strangers in dimly lit rooms. She is a beautiful and inspiring person.

Nick is half an inch shorter than me. Her nose and face are rounder than mine. Her forehead has less wrinkles. When I reach Nick’s voicemail, I can’t help but notice that her message sounds like my own, a similarly rhythmic and monotonous voice.

I am a twin. Nick is my identical sister, and my best friend. We shared a womb and were born on the same day, under the same zodiac sign—the stubborn, bossy Taurus. We were raised by weirdos, and we are weirdos; we have a soft spot for them. We both love campy movies and horror films, and no one can stand to watch anything with us because we don’t shut up. But while we share traits and experiences, we are not the same person. We have different interests and ambitions, diverging lifestyles and values. Nick approaches her future with a pragmatic framework, while I am satisfied so long as my creative fire is tended.

These days, we both live in British Columbia, leading separate yet intersecting lives: me in Powell River, her in Kamloops. We see each other often, and when she’s away I do not feel her pain or share her thoughts, despite what stereotypes about twin telepathy allege. I do miss her, though, so maybe in some ways we impart our aches to one another in our time apart.

There are two main types of twins: fraternal and identical. Fraternal twins come from two eggs fertilized by two sperms; they are genetically parallel to siblings who are born in separate years, and can have quite different characteristics and appearances. Identical twins develop from one egg, which splits after fertilization to create two babies who share very similar genetics.

My mother, Nancy, has twins running in the family, and when Nick and I were born, we bolstered that pattern. According to a 2021 study published in the journal Human Reproduction, twins are quite rare, representing twelve in every thousand deliveries across the world. Identical twins are even less common, accounting for about four in every thousand deliveries. Still, in many countries twins are much more common now than they used to be. The global rate of twin births has risen by a third since the 1980s, with about 1.6 million sets of twins born every year. There are many reasons for the higher twin birth rate: People are entering pregnancies later in life, and there has been increased access to reproductive technology and fertility medication, all of which can increase the likelihood of twins. But while there may be more twins being born, our assumptions about them seem to have largely stagnated.

Comparisons are naturally projected on most sibling relationships, but twins seem to get extra attention because they symbolize a closeness that feels out of reach in other types of relationships. Every time someone tells me they wish they had a twin, I imagine it’s the presumed intimacy that they yearn for—as though having a twin would mean they get to share something beyond siblinghood, something special, exclusive. What I don’t think people consider are the difficulties that come with being perceived first and foremost as a twin, before any other part of your identity.

Pop culture is peppered with tropes about twins. They are often understood as a single character: twins might cutely finish each other’s sentences, providing a moment of comic relief, or they might stand and stare in matching outfits, sending chills down the viewer’s spine. Twins can be cast as polar opposites that each complete the other’s personality, with one serious and one fun, one booksmart and the other practical. In all these cases, twins are seen in relation to each other, as though they’d be a complete person if they were united.

Growing up, I faced assumptions that because Nick and I share similar genetics and physical traits, we must also share thoughts, pain and goals. Some people haven’t even tried to tell us apart. Though my sister and I are in our thirties, our family members will still take a fifty-fifty shot at getting our names right. The cheesy jokes and cliché questions feel like knee-jerk reactions, naturalized responses. But after all these years, it’s become exhausting to politely laugh and accommodate such ignorance. I’m still not sure how to respond constructively, and my first instinct is to become defensive.

No matter how independent we become, how separately we live and how different we look, Nick and I will always be the twins the world wants us to be. While I’m not ready to accept this defeat, I’m learning how to be patient and approach these annoyances with curiosity rather than frustration.

Nick and I have lived separately since we were eighteen. The summer we graduated from high school, I left our hometown of Kamloops to explore Australia, while Nick went on her own travels in Southeast Asia.

During our time apart, I discovered for the first time that unless I shared the fact of my twinness, no one would know about it. My identical sisterhood was such a central theme in my life, it felt surprising that people didn’t immediately sense it. Not sharing information about my sister felt outlandish and shady, like I was a convict on the lam. Yet there was a certain kind of agency in controlling when and how I went about revealing this secret. Sometimes I would rip the blindfold off just for fun, like a party trick. And then, each time after I unveiled my twin status it felt like I’d abused it, sold out and spilled it for the wrong reasons, supporting the sensationalism I was trying to avoid. Yet being a twin is how I grew up and what I know; it is an identity that’s impossible to leave behind.

I’d been working and living on the east coast of Australia for a few months before Nick arrived for a visit. When I picked her up from the airport in the company shuttle I’d borrowed, she was sun-kissed and excitable, hair swaying to and fro, shorts frayed and sandals wearing thin. Her backpack was bedazzled with history, patches sewn haphazardly onto its sides during brief bouts of boredom. Shoes dangled from her bag by their dirty laces, a water bottle clanged against an unused carabiner. We embraced in a sweaty, tight hug, both filled with stories. She’d just come from her own adventure in Thailand, and we had planned to join forces so that we could travel in New Zealand together. I was excited to have her back.

In the time leading up to Nick’s arrival, I’d been shy about telling my new friends about my twinness. Most knew that I had a sister on the way, but not a twin. To them, I was just Shauna (last name, “The Canadian Girl”), not one of the Andrews twins or Nick’s sister. My independence was so fresh and freeing, like a debt I no longer owed. I was afraid these feelings of liberation would disappear as quickly as they’d arrived.

Nick and I tumbled into the hostel where I had been renting a room for the past three months while working as a tour guide. We walked quickly down the hallway, our bodies moving as impulsively as our conversation. I carried Nick’s colourful purse while she hauled her backpack, and our Day-Glo chatter filled the small room with the check-in desk. The woman working behind the desk widened her eyes when she saw us.

“Oh my god, there’s two of you,” she said in a high-pitched Australian accent. “I didn’t know you had a twin! You look the exact same.”

Nick and I gave a preliminary chuckle, eyeing each other. 

“So,” she said as she pointed the check-in form toward Nick, “Which of you is the evil one?”

Sometimes, parents are the ones who fuel stereotypes about twins. They might adorn their kids with names that rhyme or alliterate, or drape them in matching outfits. I don’t think this creation of a melting pot of identity is intentional; after all, the little twins are just so dang adorable! But as the children grow up, this lack of individuality shapes how they understand themselves, and the novelty of their similarities becomes less practical.

In the book Siblings Without Rivalry, communication experts Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish teach parents to treat their kids as individuals, rather than use a sense of rote equality. Giving your children the exact same things is sometimes a strange product of guilt, stemming from a desire not to let anyone feel left out. But isn’t it worse to assume that all children enjoy the same things? “To be loved equally … is somehow to be loved less,” Faber and Mazlish write. “To be loved uniquely—for one’s own special self—is to be loved as much as we need to be loved.”

The notion warms my heart. It’s a concept my mother lived by, even while the rest of the world didn’t seem to agree. Nancy intentionally avoided choosing similar names and buying matching clothes for Nick and I. While we struggled to be our own persons, our mother was busy figuring out a balance between providing space for uniqueness and maintaining equality.

I can only imagine that if I’m exhausted by people’s misplaced fascination with Nick and I’s shared identity, Nancy would have felt the same during our upbringing. Friends and family members regularly gifted us matching dresses, socks, frilly underwear, pants and onesies when we were kids. We’d be given a single card and birthday present to share, as people assumed we liked the same pastimes and playthings. At times, it was truly suffocating.

By the time Nick and I entered grade four, Nancy had requested that we be put in separate classrooms. She hoped it would help others distinguish our identities and promote independence in us. What I’ve come to learn is that these tactics aren’t unique to our family. My mother’s friend Lisa has a fraternal set of twin boys. After they turned three, Lisa and her husband started splitting them up and having each of them stay with her parents one day a week. “The doctor said that if we didn’t start separating them, they might have to see a shrink when they’re older,” she says.

When Lisa told me this, I thought the doctor had been somewhat dramatic. Separating her children in such a way felt like an extreme effort to dodge the twin individuality crisis. Then again, I have to admit that, despite all of my mother’s efforts, the identity struggle has always been present for Nick and I—even now. The awe and captivation that overcomes people when they learn about Nick is off-putting. When people ask me what it’s like to be a twin, I often feel like I am disappointing them because I don’t have an entertaining answer. “Well, it’s like having a sister,” I respond. I tell them we don’t look much the same anymore, which further deflates them. I wonder what it is they want me to say. Do they want us to be best friends? Roommates? Identical in every way, down to matching tattoos?

Maybe that doctor wasn’t so far off after all.

Recently, I invited two identical twins I met through mutual friends for a coffee. Ashton and Cassandra arrive together, both dressed fashionably. Ashton has long wavy hair, while Cassandra’s is mid-length and straight. Nevertheless, they’re identical, and there’s no mistaking that. When Ashton can’t decide on a drink, her sister dramatically sighs, “Can’t you just pick something? It’s coffee.” Anyone else might think that these sisters are being rude to each other. Or, as the world would have it, their bickering repartee might be seen as a twin thing: a reflection of their inseparable bond, a result of their innate understanding of each other. To me, they are simply speaking a language of sibling love.

At first, Ashton and Cassandra are a little shy, talking quietly and magnetically turning toward each other for support. But soon, they’ve engaged me in their arguments about TV shows and greasy hair.

After an hour with these women, I’ve discovered a few things. They were born in January 1993; they’re honest, logical capricorns. They have a brother who is four years older. As children, their mother dressed Cassandra in purple and Ashton in pink. They were so similar that their mother took to painting Ashton’s big toes pink so that she could tell her and Cassandra apart.

Individuality has been something Ashton and Cassandra have been seeking for their whole lives. By the sounds of it, they too have encountered their fair share of unsolicited comparisons. 

I suspect that for these women, comparison and competition are synonymous. It can’t be denied that the world promotes a certain ruthless competition between twins, reinforced by preposterous assumptions, insensitive jokes and harmless teasing. It’s not uncommon to hear flippant conclusions like “one twin is more daring than the other,” “that twin is sportier than the other” or the worst one, “she’s the prettier twin”—which, devastatingly, has always positioned itself as a deranged compliment, rather than a shallow and tactless statement. I ask Ashton and Cassandra about the delicate subject of twin-triggered competition. They pause and look at each other before they answer.

“We used to compete all the time—it was really bad. But these days, we’re like, who has time for competition? Like, why should we compete, you know?” Cassandra says.

My conversation with Cassandra and Ashton makes me wonder: competition and comparison may be thieves of joy, but could they also be thieves of individuality? To be measured solely against your twin’s achievements or qualities robs you of your uniqueness. A lifetime of constant comparison to my sister has taken away my understanding of individuality and replaced it with a sense of misplaced identity.

Although my sister and I have discovered independence as adults, it did not come quickly or easily. Growing up, we did everything together, or on behalf of one another. The lines between our needs blurred. It was only with time that I was able to understand what I liked as an individual. To this day, I still find myself checking in about what it is that I want, rather than what would be best for Nick and I as a pair.

In fifth grade, I was shocked but excited when I got invited to a popular girl’s sleepover. Nick didn’t receive an invitation. I spent the week plagued by concern and distraction. Nick and I were often teased about being inseparable lookalikes, as though we were attached at the hip. Going alone was like leaving the house without shoes. And yet, I went.

The birthday girl had a big home. We went into her hot tub. We made prank phone calls. We ate pizza. We took over the basement, laughing wildly and skipping around, dipping and dancing and doing the limbo.

As the night wound down, there were about seven or eight of us left, wrapped in sleeping bags in front of the couches. Illuminated only by the glow of the TV, we made ourselves into a pile, watching thrillers and, as young women do, playing truth-or-dare, a staple at any good sleepover.

It was my turn. “Truth,” I said.

“Did your sister cry when she didn’t get invited?” the birthday girl asked. I could see her teeth through the dark.

I felt my throat tighten. I had been working to fit into this crowd while remaining unnoticed. I was uncomfortable, nervous to have come at all. I didn’t want anyone to sense the guilt I carried by leaving my sister at home.

Of course Nick had cried when she didn’t get invited. And I’d waved her feelings away, pretending I didn’t care. It was the first time I can remember feeling betrayal, and I was the one responsible for it.

“Well…” I paused. I didn’t know what to do; the truth didn’t seem like an option.

“It’s okay,” the girl said as she glanced around in the dark. The others were silent, holding back their snickers. She leaned closer. “I won’t tell her you said anything.”

“I mean, yeah, she was upset…” My voice trailed off when I noticed the growing grin on her face. Everyone started to laugh.

“Tell her not to be,” she interrupted. “I was only allowed ten friends. So we drew straws to see which one of you I’d invite!” This unleashed a chime of unstoppable giggles. It hurt to know that I could have just as easily been left out, home alone. There was nothing special about me, no reason to be invited over my sister. I felt like I had misplaced my membership to a clique, squandered my invitation, lost a second chance to be part of the group. But mostly, I felt like I’d let myself and my sister down by revealing a secret that confirmed the assumptions of our peers—that we come as a unit, and without our other half, we are lost.

I wondered then what Nick was doing; if she was okay, if she was upset with me and if she felt worse being left to sleep alone than I did being ridiculed at midnight.

Up until we were fourteen, my sister and I shared the same ashy-blonde hair colour. We also shared shoes, a wardrobe and makeup. As teenagers, it was increasingly important for us to find ways to be different. Our mom did not have the resources to support fashion statements, so we were on our own. Luckily, in the ninth grade we both obtained our first part-time jobs at different fast food locations. We had enough money to get bagels at the cafeteria, pay our bus fare, purchase the coffees we didn’t need on short breaks—and buy cheap hair dye. Nick grabbed a box of dark brown, and I got blonde. I massaged the dark, pungent, poisonous-smelling cream into my sister’s scalp, managing to get it all over her forehead and my wrists despite wearing gloves. I trusted her technique as she guessed at how to place foil and apply dye with a basting brush from the kitchen utensil drawer.

We stood in the mirror once we were finished. The result looked undeniably horrible, but it didn’t matter; Nick and I were overjoyed with our new appearances. The individuality donated by the transformation trumped the reality of what our hair looked like. The effort was a drop in the bucket in our journeys to assert ourselves, but it gave us hope, if just for a moment.

Out of attachment to our blossoming identities, Nick and I maintained our respective hair colours throughout our teens and twenties. I was blonde, she was brunette—until recently.

A few months ago, Nick sent me a text message. “I’m thinking about going blonde,” it read. I smiled and responded:

“That’s funny…I was thinking about going darker. When’s your appointment?”

“Next Wednesday.”

“Mine too.”

I’m sure we were both shaking our heads at the irony of trading places. Maybe our synchronicity was a coincidence. Or maybe on another, unexplored level, our closeness over all these years has us inherently migrating toward the same direction, coming to the same conclusions, exploring the same trends and craving the same changes. Not because we are identical twins, but because we are sisters—and more importantly, because we are best friends. ⁂

Shauna Andrews is a freelance writer and workshop facilitator with an MFA in creative writing from the University of British Columbia. She has been longlisted for the CBC Poetry Prize and published in literary periodicals including the Malahat Review, the Humber Literary Review, Portal and Incline. For more on Shauna, visit cowgirlgrammar.com.