Some people are born with effortless advantages—good hair, a cute nose, clear skin. Others arrive with talent: a jump shot, an ear for music, a mind that understands numbers before language. And then there are the rare few handed a companion on day one.
Only about 0.3% of people enter the world with an identical twin. I’m part of that sliver—a statistic so rare it feels almost mythic.
Being a twin isn’t something you earn or learn. You just are it. A matched set. Before I was Ashley, I was Amanda’s twin. Technically, I still am. But that phrasing makes it sound passive—a mirror, a copy, an afterthought. It leaves no room for the fact that I liked books more than banter, grades more than game days, even if I played basketball mostly because she did. That’s what happens when you’re born next to someone who excels naturally: you follow, or you fade.
We grew up like most kids, only in duplicate. Same grade, same school, same room. Same friends, same sports. And yet, even small things mattered: someone to hold the backpack on the first day of school, long drives to away games, a hand to scratch a back. Those everyday constants made life easier than I realized.
Identical twins are supposed to simplify the nature-versus-nurture debate. Same DNA, same home, same upbringing. But Amanda and I complicate the rules. We share everything genetically, yet we grew into very different people.
She was louder, taller by half an inch, more self-assured. I measured myself against her in free throws, in grades, in quiet ambition. People often asked us to define ourselves: who’s smarter, prettier, more outgoing. Questions never posed to regular sisters.
Eventually, we stopped dressing alike. I went for neutrals, clean lines, an outfit that could read as effort or indifference. Amanda wore bear boots, ripped denim, and made it look effortless. Her clothes could swallow me; mine would bore her. Her apartment looked like a streetwear catalog; mine was pared down, lined with books and plants. She played loud music; I preferred quiet tracks. We drifted into separate worlds, though thankfully never liked the same men.
College brought the first real separation. I left for school, learning to enter a room, introduce myself, and simply be Ashley. People didn’t call me a twin. They didn’t know another version of me existed. Amanda followed a few months later—not because she had to, but because proximity had always been easier. Our only true separation came with an internship eight months away, and even that felt like a season changing.
I learned to be alone, but the twin bond never truly loosened. Visits were marked by small conflicts—dishes, shoes, something trivial—but we missed each other the way one misses a limb they didn’t know mattered. Now, as adults, closeness is no longer automatic. We choose it.
Here’s what I’ve realized: being a twin isn’t having a built-in best friend. It’s growing alongside someone who has known every version of you—the awkward, the brave, the in-between. Someone who remembers the childhood you’re always trying to reinterpret with tenderness. We’ve grown into different people, but when I see Amanda—even from the corner of my eye—there’s still that familiar ease. Some connections are forged at birth, and some never let go.
