I always liked to think of myself as the black sheep of my family. Not in a rebellious way, but in the sense that I wanted to carve my own path—something different, something uniquely mine. My parents were always supportive, but growing up in the orbit of the Curry family, with my mom’s college roommate Sonia Curry as my godmother, meant that basketball was never far from my life. Still, there was a time when I wanted nothing to do with the sport.
Art was never my thing. I tried, but even my stick figures looked like they were having a bad day. Volleyball seemed promising for a while—I liked the idea of being different, of not just following the basketball trail that seemed to wind through both our families. But my volleyball career was short-lived; I could barely pass, and serving was a disaster. I’d get subbed out after three rotations, and I realized, with a sigh, that maybe this wasn’t my calling either.
It was inevitable, I suppose. Basketball was everywhere. The Currys—Steph, Seth, and Sydel—were like siblings to me, and their house in North Carolina felt like a second home. My earliest memories are filled with the sounds of bouncing balls and sneakers squeaking on hardwood. Still, I resisted. I wanted to be different, to find my own thing. But Sonia, my godmother, had other plans. One summer, she signed me up for Steph’s boys’ basketball camp. I protested, but Mom gave me that look, the one that said, “Trust me.” I went.
I remember that first camp like it was yesterday. I was nervous, surrounded by boys who seemed to have been born dribbling. But there was Steph—older, but still goofy, always smiling, always making everyone feel at ease. He made basketball look fun, not just serious. There was joy in the way he played, and even as a kid, I could see that.
It didn’t happen all at once. But slowly, I fell in love with basketball. Not because I was told to, but because I discovered how much I loved the competition, the thrill of mixing it up, the challenge of getting better. I wanted to win, to be the best, not just for me but for the people who believed in me.
Steph was always there, even as he became a superstar. I remember visiting Davidson to watch his games when I was little, and later, seeing him courtside at my games at Stanford. He was busy—he’s always busy—but he always made time for me, dropping words of wisdom that I’d carry with me. After I got drafted, he pulled me aside: “Look, it’s going to be busy. People are going to want your time. That’s just how it is—it’s a business. But remember to bring joy to everything you do.”
That stuck with me. Steph has this way of making life feel lighter, of reminding you that even the hard parts are a privilege. When I was at the WNBA draft, I was unprepared for how exhausting it would be. The event started at 7:30, but I had to be there by 5 to get ready. When it was done, there was a whirlwind of media, interviews, handshakes, and smiles. I didn’t leave until after 1 a.m., and then, of course, we went out to celebrate.
Funny story—my dad hates flying. The trip to New York for the draft was his first flight ever. He was already a little shaken from the experience, but that night, he went out with me to celebrate. Picture this: me, freshly drafted into the WNBA, in a club with my dad, both of us a little tipsy, soaking it all in. My mom and godmother joined, too. It was one of those surreal moments you never forget. And then, at 6 a.m., we caught a flight to Indiana for my press conference. I was exhausted, but I pulled it together. It was my first real lesson in being a professional: sometimes, you just have to show up and get the job done, no matter what.
People always ask if Steph and I ever played one-on-one. The truth is, not really. We’re both competitive, but I know my limits. I’d get mad if I lost, and let’s be honest—he’d wipe the floor with me. We did play video games, though. Mario Kart, Halo, you name it. I grew up playing Halo with my dad and brother, and later, with my teammates at Stanford. During my first Final Four, we got a Nintendo Switch, and I’d play silly games like “Mama’s Cooking” to pass the time. On our first charter flight home from a preseason game in Edmonton, we played NBA 2K. It was fun, a way to bond and relax after the pressure of games.
Steph hasn’t changed much since we were kids. He’s always been consistent—kind, goofy, and a little theatrical. I remember one summer, playing in the pool with his sister Sydel. We splashed water on Steph, and he pretended to melt like the Wicked Witch of the West from “The Wizard of Oz.” He was always acting, always making us laugh. That sense of joy, of not taking life too seriously, is something I try to carry with me every day.
Now, as I start my professional career, I realize how lucky I am—not just to play basketball, but to have a family, both biological and chosen, who support me. Steph taught me that it’s not just about the game; it’s about the people you meet, the memories you make, and the joy you bring to every moment. Whether I’m on the court or in a club with my dad, those are the moments that matter most.
And maybe, one day, I’ll work up the nerve to challenge Steph to a game of HORSE. But for now, I’m content to chase my own dreams, with a smile on my face and the lessons of my godbrother guiding me every step of the way.
