Growing Up as an Only Child: Learning Loneliness Early

Growing up as an only child was, for me, both a privilege and a quiet kind of isolation. I often watched my friends pack their bags during summer vacation, heading off to visit cousins, grandparents, and big family homes buzzing with life. I remember standing in the balcony, feeling like I was the only one left behind — the silence in the house felt bigger somehow during those days.

At a very young age, I learned what it meant to be alone. It wasn’t always sad — sometimes I found comfort in my own company — but there was an ache that I couldn’t name back then. My mother did everything she could to fill that space. She was a full-time working mother, always trying to make my world feel full. And yet, no matter how much love she gave, there was a kind of companionship I longed for that only another child could have provided.

Maybe that loneliness did more than just make me independent — maybe it also made me crave the kind of love I used to read about in books. I read a lot growing up; I used to write all the time too; stories were my escape, but also my mirror. The way those characters were loved — fiercely, unconditionally, completely — made me angry at my own reality. Why didn’t I have that warmth, that chaos, that noise of belonging? Sometimes I think that’s where my fear of being alone comes from. I still get that sinking feeling, like I’m back in those quiet, heavy days. Maybe that’s why I hold on to people and moments too tightly, why letting go feels like tearing away a part of myself. The truth is, the adult me is just the child me, still trying to fill the spaces that once felt too empty.

But I’m learning that loneliness doesn’t have to be an enemy. It can also be a teacher — one that reminds me to create the kind of warmth I used to wait for, and to give love as deeply as I’ve always wanted to receive it. I’m starting to see that being alone doesn’t mean being unloved; it means having space to know myself better. The echoes of my childhood still follow me sometimes, but now, instead of fearing them, I try to listen. Because maybe healing isn’t about erasing the dreadful emptiness — maybe it’s about finally learning to live comfortably within it.