Unfortunately, I Am An Only Child
I’ve seen countless posts and conversations about the struggles of being the eldest, the middle, or the youngest child. Each role comes with its own burdens — the pressure of being the firstborn, the neglect of being the middle child, the expectations placed on the youngest. People talk about the struggles of having siblings, of sharing space, of competing for attention.
But there’s a pain that often remains in the shadows. A kind of agony that not everyone notices. A struggle that rarely gets the recognition it deserves.
The pain of being an only child.
When people hear the term “only child,” they assume it’s a life of privilege.
“Oh, they must be so lucky! They get everything they want. No siblings to fight with, no competition for their parents’ love. They must be spoiled, entitled, living the easiest life.”
And to be honest, as an only child myself, that’s what I used to believe too.
As a kid, it felt like a blessing. My parents’ love was undivided. I never had to share my toys, my food, my space. When I wanted something, I usually got it. I didn’t know the struggles of fighting over the TV remote, of having my clothes stolen by a sibling, of living in the constant chaos of a house full of children.
For a while, I thought I had everything.
But as the years passed, I realized something — being an only child is not just a blessing. It’s also a curse in disguise.
Being an only child means you are used to being alone.
There is no sibling to run to, no one to share secrets with, no one to lean on when the world feels too heavy. You become your own best friend, your own comfort, your own protector.
Being an only child means you have to be perfect.
There is no safety net, no backup. You are the only chance, the only hope, the sole bearer of expectations. You feel the pressure in every decision, in every failure, in every moment you don’t live up to what they dreamed for you.
Being an only child means you’re good at isolating yourself.
You don’t do it on purpose — it just becomes second nature. You are used to silence, to closed doors, to figuring things out alone. Crowds make you uncomfortable, deep conversations feel foreign, and sometimes, loneliness feels safer than connection.
Being an only child means you have to be your own big brother and sister.
There’s no one to guide you, no one to pave the way. You learn lessons through trial and error, through wounds and scars, through falling and picking yourself back up — alone.
Being an only child means you need to be independent.
There’s no one to ask for advice, no sibling to hold your hand, no one to tell you what to do when life becomes unbearable. You figure it out on your own because you have no other choice.
Being an only child means you have no one to share your things with.
At first, this feels like a privilege. But as you grow older, you realize sharing is not just about toys and food — it’s about memories, about experiences, about love. And sometimes, you wish you had someone to share your childhood with.
Being an only child means you have to get used to silence.
No laughter echoing through the house, no footsteps running down the hall, no voices filling the space around you. Just quiet. Always quiet.
Being an only child means you’re bad at socializing.
You never learned the rhythm of sibling banter, the art of playful fights, the chaos of shared experiences. You hesitate before speaking, you overthink before texting back, you struggle with connection because for so long, you only had yourself.
Being an only child means you keep your problems to yourself.
You don’t vent. You don’t cry on someone’s shoulder. You don’t open up. You carry everything inside, because that’s what you’ve always done.
Being an only child means you get compared to other kids.
“Why can’t you be more like them?” your parents ask, because they have no other child to compare you to. Every success and failure is amplified, every flaw highlighted, because you are the only example they have.
Being an only child means yearning for a sibling you never had.
You wonder what it would be like — to have someone to fight with, to laugh with, to grow up with. You imagine how different life would feel if you had someone to call in the middle of the night, someone to hold onto when everything falls apart. But all you have is the thought of them, the idea of them — because they never existed.
But the hardest part of being an only child?
Being an only child means that when the time comes, when your parents are gone… you are alone.
No one to share the grief. No one to sit beside you in silence, understanding your pain without words. No one to carry the loss with you. Just you, standing in an empty house, surrounded by the echoes of a childhood that no one else remembers.
The thought of losing the only people who have ever truly known you is terrifying, and having no one left who shares your past. No one to say, “Remember when Mom used to do this?” or “Dad always said that.” No one to go home to, no one to help bear the weight of their absence.
And so, the question remains:
Who Takes Care of the Only Child?
When the eldest carries the younger siblings, when the middle child finds support from both sides, when the youngest has older ones to guide them — where does that leave the only child?
Who catches them when they fall?
Who listens when they break?
Who holds them up when the world becomes too heavy?
The truth is, we learn to carry ourselves. We learn to be our own comfort, our own rock, our own family. We learn to be strong, not because we want to, but because we have no other choice.
But just because we can doesn’t mean we don’t wish, deep down, that someone would carry us too.
Because when the world becomes too heavy, when life gets too overwhelming, when we’re breaking into pieces, there is no older sibling to guide us, no younger one to remind us we are loved.
There is just us, standing alone, holding ourselves together, because no one else will.
And one day, when the weight of grief becomes too much, when we stand by a gravestone with no hand to hold, when we come home to an empty house with no one waiting for us, we will realize — this is what it means to truly be alone.
The childhood laughter that once filled the house will be gone. The voices that called our name, the warmth of a home with people who loved us, will become nothing more than a memory.
There will be no siblings to remind us of our parents’ quirks, no shared grief, no one left who remembers the bedtime stories, the scent of home-cooked meals, the little moments that made up a life we once knew. The house we grew up in, once filled with love, will be silent. The walls will still stand, but the voices that made it feel like home will have faded.
And in that silence, we will ask ourselves:
“Did anyone ever truly understand what it meant to be an only child?”
The answer will come in the echo of an empty house.
We will sit at a table meant for a family and eat alone.
We will celebrate birthdays in solitude, with no one to tease us about our age.
We will face the darkest days with no one beside us who carries the same loss.
And when the day comes that we, too, grow old, there will be no younger sibling checking in, no nieces or nephews visiting, no childhood bonds to keep us tethered to the past.
So the next time you hear someone say, “Only children have it easy,” remember this:
We may not have had to share our toys, but we also never had anyone to share our burdens.
We may not have had sibling rivalries, but we also never had a built-in best friend.
We may not have had to fight for attention, but we also never had someone to turn to when our parents were gone.
And that kind of loneliness?
That is something no one should have to carry alone.
But we do.
And we always have.
And when the time comes, when there is no one left to carry us.
We will carry the weight of our entire existence alone.
