Broken Bones & Broken Hearts: How I Broke a Sibling's Addiction to a Ghost

Start by Swallowing Your Pride—The First Bullet is Always the Hardest

Listen, you think you lack experience? That’s your excuse because it’s easier than admitting you’re scared to bleed for someone else. Your sibling’s brain hasn’t just broken—it’s been shattered and glued back together with glue from their gut. You’re not here to fix it; you’re here to gut-check them when their spine caves under the same stupid weight.

Ditch the "I Told You So" Shit—This is a War Zone, Not a Family Board Game

You’ve got one bullet point in your arsenal: If they keep dragging that corpse by the hair into your living room, you have to become the door. Not the soft part that caves under pressure—the unbreakable metal jammed into the frame. You’re not their therapist. You don’t need to explain feelings with flowcharts or validate their self-destruction like it’s part of some cosmic plan. You need to call their bluff every time they say, "But B loved me too." Every time they beg to stay in the same ring as the person who broke them. That’s not support—it’s you letting yourself be a doormat while they bleed on your floor. And yes, that’s your floor. You clean it, even when it’s your blood mixing with theirs.

There’s No Trophy for the Most Patient Sibling—You’re Not a Nurse, You’re a Drill Sergeant

You think they need empathy? They need you to drag them over coals until the blisters teach them to walk straight again. Suggest they take their eyes off that ex—not with some weak 'delete the number' nonsense—but with a promise you’ll burn the damn phone if you have to. They say that ex will come around? You say they’ll come around like the cops when someone’s stalking from a Starbucks across town. Your kid sibling’s depression isn’t a trophy you can collect after you’ve bled out your own oxygen mask. Pull the damn cord first. If they can’t handle the heat, let them rot in their own smoke. You’re not God. You’re not their savior. You’re just the hammer they’d rather not see crack their skull open.

South Asian Culture Isn’t a Video Game Side Quest—This is Real Life

Ditch the Bollywood Bingo—If You Can’t Say One Thing in Their Native Language, You Can Say Nothing

"Brown Skin, White Lines" isn’t a metaphor—it’s a war cry. Those campus festivals you’re goggling at aren’t some mystic buffet of culture. They’re opportunities to earn trust one word at a time. You think a Garba festival is a "fun way to make friends"? It’s a foot in the door. If you want to earn brown skin’s trust, start with their real language—not the watered-down Hindi they scream at you on TikToks. Download Duolingo. Bury the Bollywood trash in your Spotify. Ask one question—"What’s one thing you want people to know about your family?”—and shut the hell up when they answer. If you have to Google something, do it alone after the conversation. You ain’t a tourist. You’re not here to collect cultural souvenirs. You’re here to build something real in the ruins of your own cluelessness.

Don’t Be That White Guy—Culture is a Knife, and You’re Holding It Like a Salad Fork

You’re not the first gringo to mistake a sari for a "bold fashion statement" and not a woman’s dignity. Your "wanting to expand horizons" sounds like code for "I want to find a date and pretend I’m not the same white trash who used to make fun of their food at the mall." Stop talking about "cultural exchange" and start talking about showing up with clean hands and a working head. When they invite you to Eid, don’t show up with a camera and a list of 15 questions. Show up with "Do you want tea?" and shut up when they tell you to. You think the language barrier is your hurdle? The bigger one’s your mouth. If you can’t ask what a ritual means without treating it like it’s a magic trick, maybe stay the hell out of their homes. They’re working 70-hour weeks just trying to be alive in a country that wants to forget they exist. Don’t make them your anthropology project, or your Google Maps pin, or your "future spouse." Be the first white guy they can trust because you didn’t treat their religion like it was a buffet of exoticism.