What It's Like to Grow Up an Only Child

From only child to community, and how I live a life well-shared.

I was raised as an only child.

My baby blue and mustard bedroom was my own, with piles of beanie babies and Rice Krispies wrappers. I'd clamor at those who entered my space without asking. Do they not adorn my respect? Ordinary specialties, like a shrimp-flavored ramen cup, would never be shared during school lunches. Because why would I? Did their parents not pack their own?

My father worked as a UPS driver and dedicated nearly 13 hours a day in overtime to provide for the family. My mother would take me out for a Blockbuster date after school, and we'd share ice-cold 711 Slurpees on the sidewalk at dusk. No siblings. No cousins lived nearby. And while I would spend a month every summer at Grandma Carol's home, meandering around alpine lakes every weekend, those times became rare as I grew older. Though — her house remains my favorite place in the world. I still smell her jar of local honey butter on the dining table.

I came to high school and was fortunate enough to find a set of friends I still actively talk and ramble with today. I didn't know a single soul on the first day of Freshman year, thus forcing myself to display a respectable level of maturity and likeness. I became googly-eyed over the cute, olive-toned boy in theatre class, who later became my husband. The brunette who rolled her eyes at me at our first tennis match became my maid of honor. Various groups of friends went from fellow camp counselors to my fellow weekend warriors. And college roommates still crash at our place and attend family dinners during the Holidays.

The passage of whispered time is here and gone before we can say hello.

Soon, quiet evenings in my childhood bedroom transitioned to game nights with reheated lasagna and lemonade at my boyfriend's mom's house. Cousins, once my go-to form of friendship, fizzled into classmate parties and high school football games. Those hot summer nights reeked of love and sweat and up-to-no-good teen stories. I was no longer the girl raised in a silent home; I became the most vital part of a family web through blood and oil.  

It's what we crave. That fierce, unlimited desire for shared laughter, a pitcher of light lager, grievance, a half-broken radio speaker, relatability, or spring-harvested pomegranates. What's yours is mine, and what's mine is yours.

That inherently biological need for shared human interaction must not be ignored.

I graduated with two Bachelor's degrees in Anthropology and Global Studies. One stark lecture on genetic anthropology — taught by a relatively headstrong professor — still sticks with me today. Anthropologically speaking, the fundamental idea behind the "Grandmother Hypothesis" is that grandmothers step in to perform various motherly duties so mothers can focus their energy and resources on the household's well-being. Many studies hold evidence of the increased stability, confidence, and independence displayed in children raised by their familial village. What might seem obvious has proven the truth: the shared responsibility of raising a cohesive family fosters proper development.

It all makes sense.

My parents gleamed at my departure for a weekend sleepover with my aunt, grandma, or best friend — not because they didn't want me around, but because they needed to hold the space for one another as adults. How can one expect to care for another if you don't care for yourself? There's a reason stress is the number one supply killer of breastmilk — it doesn't just take a village; it demands it.

But this point goes beyond the intricacies of parenthood or family building. The essential components of being a suitable friend, neighbor, or partner stem from humanity's altruistic nature: the moral and ethical notion of helping others using social welfare cooperation. 

"Happiness is only real when shared," a famous saying once quoted by East-Coast runaway Christopher McCandless. And while some might reference his history of self-indulgent controversy, I still find these words to ring true.

Frankly — I don't know if one can feel fully fulfilled or whole-heartedly prosperous in stages of prolonged separateness. To shy from neighborly duties procures a sense of personal entitlement. No one feels subconsciously secure with someone who doesn't listen.

What takes true contentment is not only a life well lived, but a life well shared. 

And so, yes. After a decade of mistakes learned and habits improved — I find that a middle school cup of ramen extends beyond a shared meal but a new level of trust and care. I find that if a friend feels somewhat distant, I reach out. Because frankly, I find the "not my problem" people to be the most insufferable.

Thus — my only child syndrome will always inherently exist, but what saved my loneliness was the willingness to be open to a found family. I cherish the open-door policy at my in-law's place, and I never have to question if a best friend finds me funny (sometimes). 

These bonds of unbreakable comradery don't just happen automatically; they require constant nurturing and ongoing work. It takes a healthy level of personal sacrifice to be available to your neighbor in the village, and that's a good thing. Consider the time spent helping others a necessity, a blessing even.

Nothing is more fruitful than a family of children cleaning the dishes after the parents assembled honey-baked ham for Christmas. It sucks to get wet food under the fingers, but the hot water soaks the skin just in time for a backyard kickball game.

Scanned images from my dad's shoebox.