Rant: Being an Only Child is Widely Misunderstood
I have let my (l)on(e)ly child syndrome define me my entire life. It shouldn’t, but it does.
I credit many of my greatest aches to a childhood spent solely around adults, as an observer turned mini-grown-up.
I have to preface by giving credit where credit is due –– I am the person I am because I was raised as an only child. There are lessons I have learned and opportunities I have been gifted that I would not have experienced otherwise.
My life as an only child developed my soul in a way I would not trade for anything, but even so, I would not wish that kind of lonesomeness upon anyone.
In more ways than one, I was self-taught. Sure, I never had to fight over the bathroom or the car keys, but I had to teach myself how to braid hair. I learned the consequences of talking back to my parents through personal experience rather than laughing at an older brother for getting into trouble.
I had to keep secrets and laughs internalized because I didn’t have a little sister to share them with. I had no one my own age to annoy or argue with.
