Becoming an Only Child: Guest Post by Amanda Held Opelt

 

Almost a year ago, I gave birth to my second daughter.  Two girls, between two and three years apart, just like me and my sister.  Watching them grow up together has unearthed some of my oldest memories, moments from my earliest days of childhood, recollections that are hard to differentiate from my imagination.  Watching my youngest daughter look up to her big sister stirs in me a longing and has exposed new surfaces of my grief.   “This is ok,” I tell myself.  “It is ok to feel this.  This is part of the process.”

I’ve never been an only child.  I always had an older sister.  Having an older sister means you have someone who has borne witness to your life from the moment you entered the world.  It means having someone to grow old with that shares your DNA.  It means having someone who knows you with a powerful depth of intimacy, birthed from shared experiences and shared formation.  It means having someone who can shed light on your past because they were there with you in it.  It means having someone who is a few steps in front of you on the path of life.

When that person dies, it can feel like you become invisible.  The person who knew you, who truly saw you is gone.  You feel like a stranger in the world.

I can’t tell you how exposed and alone I felt after my sister died, like I was lost at sea or stranded in the wilderness.  She was in many ways, my true north, and I’d never considered that she might die before me.  The emotional task of someday having to care for my aging parents was left alone to me.  What was I going to do?

Anyone who has suffered loss like this knows that the grief never gets easier.  You do however build up a capacity to carry the pain of it.  When I watch my daughters, and I see in their expressions and movements myself and my sister, I am no longer crushed by the sorrow.  Instead, I am able to embrace the pain as a testament to the depth of the love my sister and I shared.  And while I have learned that no one can replace a sister, beautiful friendships can serve to steady you, to become a type of compass for you until you find your true north again.

I have friends now who I am intentional about sharing my childhood with.  They will never fully understand what it means to have grown up in my family of origin, but by showing them pictures of my life as a kid and telling them stories, they can begin to hold some of my memories with me and process who I am in light of my past.  This vulnerability can be scary at times, but it is necessary for healing, for making space for new love to enter your life.

I may be an only child now.  But I am not a stranger in the world.  I am not alone.  I am not unseen.