The little witch in a boy’s world

If you remember, I was born into a squad. A ready-made family that came armed with three big brothers, aged six, five, and four. I arrived like a little weirdo kitten into a den of wolves—but in the very best sense of the word. They were strong, good-hearted, smart, and natural overachievers. Above all, they carried a fierce, protective love for our parents, especially our Mom. That devotion was their north star; they loved and cared for her with unwavering loyalty until she passed from cancer nine years ago—a chapter I, heartbreakingly, wasn’t there for.

But going back to my amazing brothers: growing up with them was a daily masterclass in chaos and connection. Every day, something happened. A fistfight over the remote, a dramatic backyard accident, a conspiracy to avoid chores. My little neurodiverse brain was in a constant state of study. I’d watch them through my big brown eyes, a silent admirer from the sidelines, trying to decode their world.

It wasn’t just about learning who they were, but absorbing what they loved. I became a tiny archivist of their interests. My oldest brother’s passion for airplanes and fast cars seeded a lifelong obsession—my favorite, to this day, is an Aston Martin. My other two brothers bled black and gold, making the Pittsburgh Steelers my forever NFL team. I braved every Stephen King adaptation and The Omen, enduring vivid nightmares afterwards, just to be part of the post-movie analysis. Their friends’ names, their after-school stories, the books they left on the coffee table—it all became part of my curriculum.

For a long time, I didn’t have the words for what I was doing. Now I understand: this was my version of being an autistic girl in a neurotypical world. Mimicry isn’t a lack of self; it’s often a survival toolkit, a deep desire to connect, and a form of love so intense it wants to merge with its source. We learn to blend by studying the people we adore, assembling a mosaic of behaviors, interests, and rhythms that say, “See? I’m like you. Let me stay.”

Which is why, until now, I’ve carried a secret shame about these memories. A nagging fear that if I told my brothers how much of my world was built from the blueprints of theirs, they might think I was faking it. That my love for the Steelers was just copycat loyalty, or that my opinions on Stephen King were borrowed, not earned.

But I know, in my bones, that’s not true. You don’t fake a devotion that lasts decades. You don’t borrow a passion that becomes part of your own heartbeat. Those interests were the bridges they unknowingly built for me, and I crossed over, making them my own. They were the threads I used to weave my place in the family tapestry.

So, to my wolves—thank you for the chaos, the protection, and the unintentional blueprints. That weirdo kitten was always watching, and she learned from the best.