One of my favorite things to do is sing with my dad. He plays piano and we harmonize to Joni Mitchell and Jackson Browne with a euphony only found in voices cut from the same cloth. 

But if you asked my dad, he might not list this activity as my favorite. And he wouldn’t be completely off base — I often appear to do it with the reluctance of a teen making their bed. Why? Because when I sing with him, I’m not thinking about the beautiful music we’re making. I’m thinking about the day when the music stops. 

“When I sing with him, I’m not thinking about the beautiful music we’re making. I’m thinking about the day when the music stops.”

In the last couple years, it’s been harder for him to play due to tightness in his hand. Not impossible, though someday it might be. So I started learning some of the songs we play, but I doubt I could ever master the complete repertoire that has become muscle memory to muscles that are betraying him. 

This change was the first real sign of “aging” for my otherwise young and healthy parents. And it has never been more clear to me that being an only child doesn’t stop when you turn 18. The trite question, “Who will I play with after school?” has ripened into “Who will co-shoulder the emotional and physical burden of watching my parents age?” Hard pill. 

Being an only child has always been a paradox. When I was a kid, it meant not having to share toys, but also not having a built-in friend after school. When I was a teen, I had the car to myself, but I had no one to scheme with when the mischief of adolescence knocked on the door. The presents under the tree had only one name on them, but so did my mistakes. I was both the first draft and the final copy. 

There is a stereotype that only children are spoiled, selfish, and lonely — little more than narcissists-in-training. But who’s to say those traits, or worse ones, won’t develop in situations where the parents’ attention is spread thinly across multiple children? Selfishness and loneliness may have come with my personality like pre-installed software, but my parents taught me how to undo it because they had the time and bandwidth to do so. Vices of all kinds will emerge whether a child has siblings or not, and I’d argue that my parents being able to focus on me means that I curb mine better. To say that only children are genetically coded with psychological flaws, without considering how more focused parents may actually help undo or prevent some of them, is a far too reductive way of looking at it. 

“Vices of all kinds will emerge whether a child has siblings or not, and I’d argue that my parents being able to focus on me means that I curb mine better.”

My parents are also divorced, which adds a layer of complexity. Every time I was with one of them, their attention was fully on me. Obviously a bit difficult to get away with mischief, but nonetheless, I was not starved for attention. Had they not been so lasered on me, I almost certainly would have ended up making more mistakes, perhaps with better stories attached. But I’m not complaining about the trouble they almost certainly saved me from. 

Being an only child has shaped my personality in ways obvious to me, and ways I’m sure I will never notice. I drink in attention like dry soil, which makes it easy for me to host a party, but it also means alone time feels more suffocating than a crowded bar. I can’t go more than a couple days without talking to my parents, which is lovely for our relationship, but presents the issue of how I will cope when they’re gone (or who I will frantically call to ask a question about my taxes). 

“Being an only child has shaped my personality in ways obvious to me, and ways I’m sure I will never notice.”

I can see the effect of not having siblings most clearly when it comes to my friendships. It’s not simply a need to fill hours with good company, but to create relationships with the potential for permanence and depth. This mentality makes me a Golden Retriever friend — unflinchingly loyal, Saran Wrap-clingy, and readily forgiving. Those are good qualities, in moderation. But this style of friendship also means I can overthink myself into insecurity. I’m often worried that my love for the person comes off as too overwhelming, too eager, and pushing for a sibling-level closeness that they didn’t sign off on. 

I’m not saying that overthinking friendships is exclusive to only children — there are plenty of people whose doorman knows them better than their siblings, and those people might view friendship in a similar way. But for me, whether it comes from a sibling or a friend, having a person who qualifies as “no matter what” is as necessary as bread in a sandwich. 

I am a person who worries about things far before I need to (call it a flex). It wasn’t long after I graduated from college and started living like a “real adult” that I developed a chronic worry about my parents’ aging. I’m aware that it’s a privilege to have your parents live long enough to age, but that doesn’t make it any less difficult to stand idly by as time has its say. 

“I’m aware that it’s a privilege to have your parents live long enough to age, but that doesn’t make it any less difficult to stand idly by as time has its say.”

This anxiety is one where I feel certain that the presence of a sibling would extinguish it like a wet finger on a wick. Of course, my friends have the same fear of their parents aging, but they are able to share that fear with siblings. They have an imaginary contract that says, “We’re in this together.” Even if my eventual husband is there to support me, that only covers the more physical parts of the deal — time spent caring, going to appointments, planning dinners. It doesn’t cover the grief. 

At my mom’s birthday dinner last week, she was playfully arguing with her sister about whether their mom used butter or Crisco in her family-famous chocolate cake. I became a spectator to a type of conversation only children never have. It’s up to me to remember everything. No one will fill in the gaps, the misremembered details will go uncorrected, the forgotten ones swept away like the fluff of a dandelion. My version of their lives is the only one that exists. 

I’ve spent countless hours talking about this reality with my therapist and even my own parents (what good sports they are, I can’t imagine it’s a fun conversation). I still dread the long, lonely road, but I’ve tried to shift my perspective to grant appreciation a seat at the table. No one else understands what it’s like to be their kid. That doesn’t have to be good or bad — it can be both. There is a strange sense of comfort that comes with knowing you are the only person who has had a certain experience. Isn’t that what we want? To walk through the world in a way that feels different than those around us? 

“No one else understands what it’s like to be their kid. That doesn’t have to be good or bad — it can be both.”

Even if my parents aren’t imminently ill, it’s in my nature to anticipate problems so I can brace for impact. I’m also still figuring out who I am, what I want out of my life, what I don’t want (I’m told this is an ever-present process). I’m caught in this chasm between independence and obligation, as I try to balance the impending reality of aging parents with the need for my own self-actualization. 

Knowing that my parents will not always be there, and that I don’t have siblings to fall back on, has made me simultaneously want to become more independent and find people who I can cling to fiercely. Those are conflicting statements, I know, but I don’t fall into one category or the other. Whether or not I consider myself “independent” depends on the context. I’m not afraid to take a new class by myself, or bake cookies when no one is coming over, or sit at the bar for dinner in an outfit suitable for a first date. But I also can’t buy a sweater without sending it in the group chat for a formal debate, I can’t encounter a minor inconvenience without complaining out loud, and a few hours without speaking to someone is cruel and unusual punishment. 

“Being an only child has taught me that it isn’t about choosing one side of my personality to crown the winner.”

Being an only child has taught me that it isn’t about choosing one side of my personality to crown the winner. Rather, it’s about accepting that I will always be both a little independent and a little needy. Holding onto my own identity, and all the ambiguity within it, is essential for taking care of my parents later in life. It’s the only way I’ll be able to show up for them without losing myself.

I’m sure I’ll look back on these thoughts with a recycled perspective 5, 10, or 40 years from now. But one thing will always be true: I’m the only person in the world who has had the experience of being their daughter. That’s something.

Olivia Macdonald is a NYC-based writer. Her advertising work for clients like the Harris-Walz campaign and the state of Connecticut have been featured in AdWeek and AdAge, but more importantly, have been a big hit in the family group chat. You can read more of her writing in her newsletter, om nom, and on her website.