Sole Ingredient of an Only Child: Wala Kang Kakampi
Every person has their worst nightmare, but for the only child, it would be the phrase, “What happened to you? We used to not worry about you.” Alongside being treated like an adult while you’re still a child, and being treated like a child while you’re an adult, every occurrence just seems to multiply.
If someone had it easy, the only child would never be on the list of choices.
Often facing the silent pressure of high expectations from our parents, we’re not allowed to be the kind of experimental research, to be a trial and error.
Therefore, there’s no room for mistakes, but unfortunately, life often throws us curveballs. If ever that happens, everyone expects us to handle it with ease and bounce back like nothing happened because we’ve created a picture of us being fine as linear, maintaining a facade of perfection.
People commonly label only children as “lucky,” assuming we get whatever we want, whenever we want. However, the reality is far different — there are always conditions attached to our desires.
“You should pass this entrance exam, and then I’ll get you that.”
“You must achieve high honors before I buy you that, alright?”
It’s a system of rewards. With this being implemented, we’re driven to work hard, constantly seeking validation to determine if our efforts are sufficient or lacking. As time passes, you might find us eating alone as if it’s routine, nervously biting the spoon, pushing ourselves to excel while gradually losing sight of who we are.
Have you experienced what it’s like to sleep with a blanket with the weight of being the sole bearer of your parents’ hopes and dreams?
The fear of disappointing them makes it hard to take risks and mimic our parents’ path, with no other role models to turn to. As an only child, creating our own identity amidst silent expectations and unspoken comparisons becomes a lonely journey.
The absence of siblings means there’s no one to share the load. Everyone surely had this experience during the first day of classes — teachers would call out names, and once a last name is somehow familiar, they would say, “Are you related to (name of their former student with the same last name)?”
Hearing that, there’s always a hint of envy, with a thought that they already have a name to live up to, while I must establish my own as I’ve received claps that echoed throughout the whole stadium, with no one to back me up when I fail, still being the center of my family’s attention.
A house is incomplete without misunderstandings. When they arise, of course, those who lived in the same generation often unite against the younger, dismissing their perspectives without a chance to speak, fostering a mindset of, “If I can’t be understood at home, why should I expect understanding from others?”
I hate to break it to you, but we don’t have anyone.
