The Myth of ‘Me, Myself, and I’: What Being an Only Child Taught Me About Needing God

For most of my life, I’ve heard the same things about being an only child:

“You must be so spoiled.”

“I bet you never had to share anything!”

“Ugh, I wish I was an only child.”

From the outside looking in, being an only child gets painted like this glittery, drama-free world where everything is yours and your parents cater to your every whim. And sure, there were perks... I never had to fight over the TV remote or share my snacks. I grew up fiercely independent, creative, and deeply in tune with my own thoughts.

But the truth?

Being an only child isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be.

There’s a quiet weight that comes with being “the only one.”

There’s no sibling to split responsibilities with. No one else to sit through the awkward family talks or help navigate the hard stuff. No built-in person to tag in when life feels like too much. It can feel like being the default everything - the emotional support system, the caregiver, the decision-maker, the legacy holder.

Being an only child can also be profoundly lonely in ways people rarely talk about. It’s not just about playing by yourself or eating alone at the kitchen table... it’s the kind of loneliness that seeps into milestones. No one to whisper with at family gatherings, no one to text inside jokes to about your parents, no one who just gets it without needing a backstory. It’s growing up without a built-in witness to your life, which sometimes makes your own memories feel quieter, like echoes in an empty room.

And when family issues come up: those tense moments, the misunderstandings, or the deep disappointments... I don’t have a sibling to turn to and whisper, “Did that just happen?” or “How are you handling this?” There’s no one who shares the same childhood map to help navigate it with me. And while I have amazing friends, I often hold back because I don’t want to be a burden. So most of the time, I bottle it up, hoping I can sort through it alone. It’s a lonely kind of coping; feeling all the emotions but having nowhere safe to spill them. And that’s where I’ve had to learn to bring it to God first, because sometimes he’s the only one who truly knows the weight of what I’m carrying.

And if I’m being real, being an only child, especially an only daughter, sometimes feels like carrying a whole bloodline on your back. You’re not just the child. You’re the legacy keeper. The emotional anchor. The one who absorbs the tension and smooths it over. You grow up fast. Not necessarily because you had to, but because you felt like you had to.

There’s a quiet pressure to be everything at once: the helper, the peacemaker, the strong one. It’s the same unspoken role so many firstborn daughters carry. You become the blueprint. The silent provider. The crisis manager. The unthanked legend.

And with no siblings to tag in, the weight can feel even heavier. You’re the one who catches things before they fall apart. The one who senses what your parents won’t say. The one who answers the late-night phone calls, carries the emotional load, does the quiet grief prep work… mentally rehearsing the moment when one day you’ll have to face loss… alone.

And as I’ve gotten older, a new kind of fear has quietly crept in...

What happens when my parents are gone?

Who will be there to process the loss with me?

Who will carry the memories of our little trio?

Who will help me breathe through the grief when it feels unbearable?

That fear hits in the quiet moments when I see my parents aging, or when I imagine a holiday table with one less seat. It’s a fear no amount of independence can protect you from. And for a long time, I didn’t have language for that ache. I just held it silently, tucked under layers of “I’m fine.”

But that silence? It eventually cracked open into something holy.

Because somewhere in all of that loneliness, fear, and emotional weight, I met God in a real, raw way. Not the Sunday morning version I was introduced to as a kid. But the Father who sits with me in silence. The friend who doesn’t need perfect words. The comforter who whispers peace when my heart starts to spiral.

See, being an only child made me strong. But it also taught me that strength without intimacy is a trap. I had to unlearn the idea that being self-sufficient meant I didn’t need anyone... including God.

I needed him.

Desperately.

Still do.

He became my place to process what I couldn’t always say out loud. He reminded me that even when I feel like “the only one,” I’m never truly alone.

The beautiful thing is, he didn’t stop there. God began surrounding me with a new kind of family... friends who show up like sisters, mentors who pour into me like aunties and uncles, and spiritual leaders who cover me like cousins. He filled the gaps I didn’t know how to pray about.

So now, when those fears start to creep in again, I pause and breathe.

I remember: I am seen. I am held. I am not alone.

And you aren’t either.

Because being “the only one” doesn’t mean you have to carry it all.

God is more than enough; for every gap, every grief, and every fear.

You were never meant to do this alone. And the good news? You never have to.