The irony of being an only daughter (twice)

By: Téa Tamburo

People love to romanticize the idea of being an only child: all the attention, all the resources, all the independence. But what that version leaves out is the quiet. I'm here to add my experience to the narrative.

I grew up alone, not just as an only child, but as an adoptee, as a Chinese daughter in a family where no one looked like me. When people talk about sibling rivalry or growing up fighting over sharing toys, I can't relate at all — which, depending on the day, feels either fortunate or isolating.

I cannot ignore the irony of my situation. I was born in China in 2004, which was shaped by the One-Child Policy that made being an only child in China not a choice, but government-mandated. In many ways, my life began with that constraint. Then, I was adopted, brought across the world, and once again became an only child. Sometimes I wonder if I was always destined to be an only daughter.

My parents used to lovingly joke about not wanting to "ruin a good thing." I know this decision came from care, not neglect. There are real benefits to it, since I'm very comfortable being alone, self-directed, and confident in figuring things out for myself. When I started college, I watched my peers struggle to stand up for and sit with themselves, and I feel fortunate to have learned these skills early on. But that independence didn't appear out of nowhere. It came from the necessity of learning, early on, how to fill my own silence.

"But that independence didn't appear out of nowhere. It came from the necessity of learning, early on, how to fill my own silence."

Being an only child also meant that all of my parents' resources were concentrated. I received opportunities I would not have had otherwise — traveling the world since I was a toddler, private school education, sustained parental involvement in my growth — the kind of attention that allowed my interests to be invested in from a young age. One could say that what I missed out on by not having a sibling, I traded for my more self-focused upbringing.

But what I’ve realized recently is that being an only child doesn't just shape your childhood; it rears its head differently in your future.

Someday, I will be the only person making medical decisions for my parents. This is true for any only child. Many adoptees carry a deep fear of aging parents, a fear rooted in loss, instability, and the lived knowledge of how temporary family can be. For adoptees, we were given up by our birth parents, so the thought of losing our second set of parents carries a weight that's hard to articulate. That fear compounds when you know you will someday bear it alone. There's no sibling to split the weight. No one will remember the same vacations, the same holidays, the same versions of my parents. Luckily for me, my dad is a photographer and has documented pretty much my whole childhood in videos and photos.

I'm also the only person who could carry on my family's name — or be the one who ends it. I have no cousins with my surname. I'm an only daughter. As a woman who may or may not take her husband's name someday, my lineage narrows to a single point, and whether it continues or disappears rests quietly on my shoulders. It's not something many would ever say aloud.

I don't write this for sympathy. As this year comes to a close, with my 21st birthday last month and realizing I'm now over halfway through college, I've been thinking about how my story as an adoptee and as a daughter converge. I hope my honesty about these unspoken topics will feel relatable, maybe to another only child or another adoptee, or maybe just someone who can recognize the irony and the quiet, hidden humor in how our lives sometimes come full circle.