My sister was a year older than me, but in spirit and maturity she had always been my junior. I spent my childhood in the kitchen with my mother, learning to create complicated recipes, and in the garage with my father, watching as he explained how to inflate my bicycle tires. She spent her childhood mixing eggs and grape juice, or whatever other unneeded ingredients she could find while I trailed behind, cleaning up her messes.
This was our dynamic. I was no smarter than her, but we did things differently, which is why whenever she did something I was doing, but better, I became endlessly vexed. She always won first place when we played Mario Kart, her Little Pet Shop character always was the mayor of our town, and she always created the best and most intricate floor plans when we would sit and draw houses together.
I was a young girl and rationalization was not a skill I had, so my mother could not assuage me by telling me that we both had our own strengths. My bitterly competitive side would rear its ugly head whenever Mia did something better than I.
Pebbles stuck to the back of my legs as I sat on the driveway. The ground was hot from the bright sun and I was sweating. Blood moved down my leg from the cut in my knee from when I had just fallen off of my bicycle.  My bike lay next to me, forgotten, as I realized I would have to go inside to get a bandage. I sighed.
Mia walked out of the garage from putting her bike away, a pink jump rope in her hand. She didn't look at me before she started jumping rope, her feet bouncing up and down perfectly, her curly hair falling in front of her eyes. I watched her with a frown.
I'd never learned to jump rope. The only thing I loved to do was ride my bike. It was hot outside, but speeding down the hill of the driveway would always send wind through my hair and cool me down. I'd never found anything that was as fun as riding around in circles, pretending I was on a horse.
But she bounced up and down, smiling proudly, looking like she was having the best time ever. I pushed to my feet, forgetting about my scrape, and marched over to her. She stopped as I stood in front of her and pulled the rope from her hands.
"Hey!" She yelled as I took it and moved back a few steps. "Give it back! Da-aaad!"
"Stop," I whined, pulling the rope away from her. "I want to do it. Teach me how."
I moved the rope behind me and twisted my wrists like she did, but the rope only tangled between my feet. Again and again I tried, but the rope never swung as easily as it did when Mia was doing it. And I was growing impatient.
"Show me how," I demanded with a frown. She shrugged, her arms crossed over her chest angrily.
"I don't know." She told me. "You just do it."
I glared at her before throwing the rope down at her feet and storming inside to the kitchen. It wasn't fair. Mia always did everything without trying, without caring, and I had to work so hard to learn. Using the stool, I pulled myself up onto the edge of the sink and started rinsing my cut off.
"Did you fall?" My mom asked, walking in from the living room.
"Mia wouldn't show me how to jump rope." I told her, even though that wasn't what she asked. She laughed a little bit, and I could feel myself getting angrier.
"You're arms aren't long enough," she explained. "We'll have to get you a smaller jump rope."
The explanation didn't make me feel any better. Even with a smaller jump rope, I'm sure I wouldn't be able to do it, I thought sadly. I sat with a frown on my face.
"You just don't like it when Mia can do something and you can't," my mom teased, poking me in the side. I nodded.
"Come on," she picked me up off the counter and put me on my feet. I followed her over to the easel in the corner of the living room.
She picked up the marker and began to draw loops on the board.
“This is your name in cursive,” she told me. Then she dropped her voice down to whisper. “Mia doesn’t know how to write her name in cursive.”
I giggled and took the marker from her. Over and over again, I went over the letters she had drawn with a smile on my face.
Mia opened the sliding door then and walked into the living room. With an evil smile, I turned and said, “Look, Mia! I know how to write my name in cursive and you don’t!” I couldn’t help but rub it in her face.
Her face dropped and she came over to look at it.
“Mommy,” she said. “I want to learn how to do that.”
I crossed my arms over my chest.
“You can’t! It’s my thing.”
My mom looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“Mia can learn, too.” She said, and picked the marker up again.
I stood back, my mouth open in shock before stomping out of the room.
I do not believe there is anything inherently wrong in striving to do better, even if the motivator is seeing else succeeding. But, eventually, my desire to one-up my sister would  mature into a desire to do better for myself,  not to surpass others. It was a childish notion to want to be the best at everything. I want my sister to be amazing, and I want to be amazing, and those should both be able to be their own, not contradicting realities.
Success should not be strived for out of spite. If I wanted it that badly, I could have stayed outside all day learning how to jump rope. It wasn’t about the task, it was just about being better than someone else, and what kind of life could that offer you? I’ll never find happiness or pride living my life trying to be better than someone else.
Anyways, these days I can do tricks as I jump and Mia still trips over the rope sometimes.