Good morning, Cicely.
You ever love someone so much that it hurts to watch them drift? Not because they’ve done anything wrong. But because they’re not themselves anymore. Because you can feel them slipping—not away from the world, but away from you… and maybe away from who they used to be.
I want to talk about my sister.
She used to laugh more. Talk more. She used to pick up the phone just to say hi, to tell me what ridiculous thing her son did that morning. She used to lean in—like we were part of the same rhythm, the same music. Like family meant something that couldn’t be bent.
But now… things are different.
She married a man I don’t trust. And maybe that’s not polite to say on the air—but sometimes truth isn’t polite. Sometimes it just is. I don’t like the way he talks to her. I don’t like the way he makes her question herself. Like she’s never quite enough unless she’s quieter, smaller, less. And I hate the way he keeps her separated—from us, from the people who love her, from the parts of herself that used to shine so naturally.
It’s subtle, the way it happens. That kind of control doesn’t scream—it whispers. It makes her think it’s her fault. Like she’s too emotional, too dramatic, too needy for wanting the kind of connection that every human deserves.
And I want her to know… it’s not her fault.
She is not too much. She is not wrong. She is not a burden.
She’s my sister. And I miss her.
I miss her stories. I miss our jokes. I miss sitting on the porch with her and talking about nothing while her son chases butterflies in the grass.
And yeah—I miss him too. Her little boy. My nephew. The kind of kid who still believes in magic. I hope he’s still smiling. I hope he still feels safe. I hope he knows he’s loved, even if the grown-ups around him are tangled up in things too big for him to understand.
If I had my way, she’d come back home. She’d pack up, grab her boy, and come back to where she’s seen again. Heard. Held. Where love doesn’t cost you your voice. Where the past can breathe again and the future isn’t built on someone else’s permission.
But life isn’t that simple. People leave when they’re ready. Not when we want them to. And so… I wait. I hold space. I keep the porch light on.
This is Chris in the Morning, KBHR 570 AM, sending a message into the mist:
To my sister—wherever you are—you’re still you. We still love you. We still remember who you are. And we’re still here… whenever you’re ready to come home.
