I get this question all the time, usually from people who either don’t know me at all, or know my sister and then, by association, learn that I exist. “What’s it like?” they ask, as if I’m living inside some bizarre reality TV show called Model Sibling: The Ugly Duckling Edition. Sometimes I want to laugh, sometimes I want to disappear. Sometimes, honestly, I want to answer with brutal honesty, because nobody ever talks about this stuff for real.
So here it is.
My sister is a model. Like, capital-M Model. Blonde, tall, that insane face that makes strangers do double-takes and ask if she’s “somebody.” She gets approached by photographers, gets gigs, gets DM’d by blue-check-mark guys who live in a different universe from the rest of us. If you imagined a character from Baywatch, that’s her—but smarter, funnier, and, to her credit, incredibly kind.
I am her biological sister. I didn’t win the same genetic lottery. Not even close. My nose is “interesting” (which is a nice way of saying bad), my lips are thin, my body is the opposite of “modelesque.” I’m not fishing for compliments. I am, to most people, what you’d call unattractive. I’ve worked out, learned how to do makeup, tried every haircut, bought every product—some things you just can’t fix.
It’s weird, growing up as the “other” sister. At family gatherings, people would rave about my sister. At school, boys would talk to me just long enough to find out if she was single. At the beach, I might as well have been a ghost with a towel. The looks people give you—sometimes pitying, sometimes surprised, sometimes just confused when they realize, yes, we’re actually related—can cut pretty deep if you let them.
There’s a special kind of invisibility in being next to someone that beautiful. You start to wonder if you’re even there. I remember high school dances, where guys would chat me up, just to ask about her. Or being out at a bar, and getting treated like the doorman to her VIP section.
I don’t care what anyone says—pretty privilege is real. It’s not just about dating, though that’s obvious (my sister had options I could only dream of). It’s about everything: friends, jobs, opportunities, even the way strangers treat you in public. Waiters are warmer, teachers are more forgiving, interviewers are more eager to hire you. I’ve watched it happen, over and over, and you start to realize the world really is different for the beautiful.
That used to make me jealous. Like, truly, burn-inside jealous—not because I wished she was less pretty, but because I wanted to know what it felt like to be wanted just for showing up.
The comments always come. “You’re not really ugly.” “I’m sure you’re beautiful in your own way.” “You probably just have low self-esteem.” I wish I could hand them a mirror and let them live my life for a week. Because it’s not just in my head. I’ve worked hard on myself—athletics, academics, personality, all of it. I’ve tried to “fix” what can be fixed. But the world treats you a certain way, and after a while, you stop trying to argue with it.
I think the hardest part is the comparison. When your sister is literally a model, you never get to be “average-looking.” You’re always the ugly one by default. Even on my best day, even if I ever do look good, I’ll still be “the sister who isn’t the model.” It can wreck your self-worth if you let it.
But I’ve learned to move past it, mostly out of self-preservation. I focused on the things I could control—being a good student, pursuing my passions, being a good friend. I’m actually working on a PhD now. I have a boyfriend who likes me for who I am, not what I look like. He laughs at my jokes, holds my hand, and makes me feel wanted in a way that has nothing to do with being seen. I had to get really good at appreciating my “personality card,” because that’s the one thing people can’t take away from me.
Sometimes, I still get jealous. Sometimes, at the beach or a party, I feel that sting all over again. But most days, I just live my life. My sister and I are close—she’s my best friend, and she’s actually a great person. She never lords it over me, and she’s always been supportive and protective in her own way.
Here’s the weirdest, maybe most important thing: Pretty people didn’t do anything to be pretty. It’s just luck. Nobody “earns” their face. That realization helped me let go of the bitterness. She didn’t steal anything from me. We’re just different.
There’s a lot of talk about loving yourself, and it’s not always as simple as a hashtag or a TED Talk. Some days I do, some days I don’t. But I’ve learned to separate my value from my looks, because I had to. And while I might not get the perks of pretty privilege, I do get to know, with 100% certainty, that when someone loves me, it’s real. Not a bad trade-off, in the end.
So, what’s it like? It’s hard. It’s weird. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it’s funny. But it’s life. And it’s mine.