Am I an Only Child? The Complexity of Family and Growing Up

"Are you an only child?" It’s a question I get asked more often than you’d think. The assumption always makes me laugh because, in reality, I have five siblings. I get why people are surprised—I don’t post about them often, and when I do, people mistake them for friends or cousins. Unless you grew up with me, you wouldn’t necessarily know I had siblings. I’ve always been private about my family, and now more than ever, I choose to keep them that way. Not because there’s anything wrong—on the contrary, I love my siblings and cherish the memories of growing up in a big family. It was chaotic, loud, and full of love. But as the only one who moved away, I experience family life differently now.

All of my siblings still live in California, close to my parents, while I’ve built a life elsewhere. It’s never been easy being the one who left, watching from afar as they have dinners, celebrate birthdays, and share everyday moments that I only get to experience through pictures or FaceTime. But when they invite me to the big moments—the weddings, the milestones, the once-in-a-lifetime events—it reminds me that distance hasn’t changed our bond, even if I sometimes wish it were easier not to miss them. If my family weren’t so amazing, I probably wouldn’t feel the ache of missing out as much.

I never planned to be the only one who moved away, and I certainly hope my siblings take chances to explore beyond the place we grew up if that’s what they want. But deep down, I think I always knew I wouldn’t stay in California forever. When the opportunity to leave presented itself, I took it without hesitation. I don’t regret it, but that doesn’t mean it’s always easy.

The funniest part about being asked if I’m an only child is realizing how people perceive me because of it. Some assume I must be incredibly stubborn, used to always getting my way. Others, like one of my friends, put it differently: "You're so driven—there’s no way you ever had to compete with anyone else because you aren’t like anyone I’ve ever met." It was one of the kindest things anyone’s ever said to me.

My parents used to joke that they raised us as only children, even though there were five of us, plus a half-sibling. Not in the sense of isolation, but in the sense that each of us had our own paths, our own priorities, and the encouragement to chase whatever we wanted. We weren’t spoiled; we were simply taught that if you work hard enough, you can make things happen. That belief has shaped how I approach everything in my life.

For a long time, I didn’t fully understand how lucky I was to have the family I do. My parents have been a shining example of what a healthy marriage looks like—so much so that my grandparents used to joke they were “obsessed” with each other. My siblings and I always got along, with the usual childhood fights and rivalries, but there was always love at the core of it.

Among us, my older sister, older brother, and I were known as "the originals"—the first three from my parents. We were inseparable growing up, constantly in band, choir, and field trips together. It seemed inevitable that we would stay close as adults. But when my older brother left for college at Berkeley, something shifted. I was entering high school at a new school, no longer living in his shadow or my sister’s. It was the first time I felt like I had my own identity, separate from them. When my turn came to choose a college, I wanted to go as far away as possible—New York was even on the table. Ultimately, I landed in Sonoma, just far enough to have space but close enough to return when needed.

Over time, my relationship with my older brother grew distant. In my senior year of college, when our grandfather’s health declined and my grandmother needed support, he refused to come home due to a fight with our parents. That was the moment I felt something break between us. Since then, other events have led to a complete disconnect between him and the rest of us. It’s been almost two years since I last spoke to my brother, and every day that passes solidifies the possibility that our relationship may never be repaired.

I’ve always believed that if you nurture something enough—water it, tend to it with love—it will grow. But some relationships don’t work that way. My siblings and I have our reasons for stepping away from our brother, and while I know it’s hard for my parents, I also know that some things are beyond fixing. I see how much effort my mom puts into staying connected with him, and I can only imagine how painful it is for her to see her children at odds.

So, am I an only child? Sometimes, it feels easier to say yes. But doing so would erase the siblings who have shaped me—the ones who are kind, driven, charismatic, and full of love. Family isn’t perfect, and that’s okay. Just because it’s messy doesn’t mean it isn’t meaningful, fulfilling, and worth holding onto.

And as for the assumption that only children are inherently stubborn, entitled, or self-centered? Maybe. But if being an only child means knowing what you want and going after it, then I guess I’ve always carried a little bit of that energy, even in a family of six.