How it feels to be an only child

I know because I am one (and I have one)

I’m an only child, which is an odd way to describe myself at the age of 52, but there isn’t another way to define the experience of being an adult who has grown up without siblings. I’m also the mother of an only child, so I’d like to think this makes me an authority on the subject – after all, I’m living the experience from both sides. 

As a child in the 1970s and 80s, I didn’t come into contact with many other only children. In fact, looking back, I can’t think of any school friends or classmates who didn’t have at least one sibling. Most kids had two. As a result, people made (and still make) a whole lot of lazy assumptions about what it means to be – and have – one child, and most of them aren’t exactly positive. 

Let’s start with all the clichés: Only children are lonely, find it hard to make friends, are social awkward, controlling, don’t like to share, are selfish, self-obsessed and anxious. While I admit that some of these are true (does anyone really enjoy sharing?), some are baseless assumptions. Others are no more applicable to only children than those who have siblings, and some have been scientifically proven to be untrue. 

I’m willing to bet you have either said or heard the above comments at one time or another. People started casually asking me when I was going to have another baby when my daughter was just a few weeks old. It would be “a shame” they said, to “deprive” her of a sibling. Perhaps even “cruel.” I don’t think I’m alone in this – I’d guess that almost every woman who has given birth has been asked the same question, by family, friends, and random people on the bus / in the supermarket / in the GP surgery. If you dare to admit that you have no plans to have a second, there’s every chance you’ll be harshly judged. 

Despite this, I’ve noticed that being – or having – an only child is no longer so unusual. By the time my daughter started school there were several other ‘onlies’ in her class, and that number is set to grow. According to the Office for National Statistics, 45% of families had one child in 2023, and the declining birth rate means that the average number of children a woman is expected to have in her lifetime has dropped to a record low of 1.44, which is well below the ‘replacement rate’ of 2.1 which is needed to maintain a stable population size.  

Blame it on the rising cost of living, the crippling cost of childcare, the tendency to have children later in life, or the simple fact that women now have so many more opportunities beyond motherhood: having one child is an increasingly common choice. Or, if not always a choice, then a compromise or a difficult decision: the fact of the matter is that many people can’t afford a bigger family, be that practically, emotionally or financially. 

In recent years, I’ve lost count of the number of people who have asked me how it feels to be an only child – usually because they’re worried about the consequences of being ‘one and done.’ They want to know if I feel I missed out, spent my childhood crying lonely tears in my bedroom or playing board games by myself (spoiler: only one of these actually happened). Alternatively, they want to know if I regret not having a second (or third, or fourth…) baby, as if I can look into the future and tell them if they’ll feel the same way. 

So, I’ve decided to share (see: I do know how!) my experience of being – and having – an only child because, statistically speaking, there are lots more of us about these days. And, for my own selfish reasons (I’m really playing to type here) it gives me an excellent opportunity to explain why only children aren’t lonely, uptight weirdos.