Confessions of an Only Child
-Grisha Gautam
“And they’ll tell you now, you’re the lucky one
Yeah, they’ll tell you now, you’re the lucky one
But can you tell me now, you’re the lucky one?”
-Taylor Swift, ‘The Lucky One’
I often reminisce about the voices that introduced me to the mantle of the pampered and fortunate child, terms that have echoed ceaselessly throughout my life. However, the hidden reality lingered, concealed beneath this grand facade. No amount of indulgence could ever tighten a seal on the void left by the absence of a sibling.
To be an only child is to be a protagonist in a chronicle often defined by societal presumptions. The world paints a portrait of an individual draped in privilege, adorned with brushstrokes of undivided attention and material abundance, unveiling only one facet of the jewel of this solitary being.
The story of an only child unfolds like a whispered secret, divided into chapters of distinctive narratives. The most peculiar would be the dance between independence and a hidden longing for connection. The aching silence never disappoints in awakening the yearning for a thread, stretching beyond the boundaries of parental love. An alone soul craves a kindred spirit and camaraderie.
The hushes accompanying are both a refuge and a battlefield, allowing introspection to become a constant companion. Like a warrior, one memorises the patterns of the winds of self-reliance, crafting an identity shaped by the unlocking of personal discovery. Yet, as the clock ticks, the shadows of desires grow longer. You learn to disguise loved ones for a confidante who helps you on the journey through the labyrinth of life, a bridge from one sibling to another.
All my life, I have found the bond of a sibling among seniors who became mentors, juniors who became proteges, and cousins who became comrades in arms. Brick by brick, I – an only child – found a way to create a wall of relation to guide me through this unfair maze. Surely, the dynamics are different, covered with the ashes of mentorship rather than the shared secrets of those who grew up under the same roof.
Amidst the pursuit of these surrogate connections, or delusions, we often bear the weight of being our parents’ only hope. The singular gaze of expectations falls upon us. Being the sole repository of this hope is like walking a tightrope between the desire to meet the heights and validation you have spent all your life working towards and the struggle to forge an individual identity.
We are trained to be the vessel of familial aspirations, carrying the dreams of our parents into the uncharted territories of the future.
To be an only child is to be a storyteller, crafting selfhood in the gaps between what they want and what you want. The journey is a reclusive one but with the pauses of the heart, the yearning for connection blooms like a resilient flower, eager to intertwine its roots with another.
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