#growingupalone

Not every blog I write is about politics, tech, or society. Sometimes, it's just raw emotion. Just me sat here in the garden, 3:30am in the morning. Cool air brushing past me like a ghost of something long gone. I think. I reflect. And sometimes, I write.

Being an only child teaches you a few things. And not in the fairy tale way people imagine spoiled, pampered, coddled. No, it teaches you how to survive silently. It shows you what it means to be independent out of necessity, not out of choice.

When you grow up without siblings, you learn early on: you’ve got no backup. No brother to step in when someone’s giving you hell. No sister to confide in when your heart breaks at 17. You are your own team, your own lifeline. And that reality hardens you in places most people never even realise.

You notice things others overlook. Every smirk someone throws your way. Every twitch of discomfort. Every shoulder shrug, foot shuffle, eye roll  it's all data. You become fluent in body language, because when you’re alone, you have to read the room like your life depends on it. That’s how you know if someone’s real… or if they’re just wearing a mask.

You learn to make every moment count because you don't get the luxury of a “next time.” That friend you talk to might vanish tomorrow. That one phone call could be the last. So you pour yourself into it, into them. Because part of you knows it could all go silent again.

I’ve had many of those late, late nights. Trust me. Too many. Like right now. Just me, my thoughts, and a quiet world that doesn’t know or care that I’m still awake. No texts. No footsteps coming down the stairs. No laughter echoing from another bedroom. Just me.

Was there a time I wished I had siblings? Yeah, there was. Especially growing up. When I saw kids arguing and then hugging five minutes later, I envied that. When I saw brothers sticking up for each other, or sisters planning sleepovers together, I felt that ache. That little voice in my chest whispering, Why not me?

But now? No. I’m happy with the silence. It’s made me who I am. It’s not a life for everyone. But it’s mine. It’s lonely sometimes, sure. But it’s taught me resilience, empathy, observation, and above all self-reliance. You learn to handle yourself. Because, quite frankly, you have no other choice.

So this blog isn’t just a post. It’s a piece of my heart. A rare one. Not polished or political. Just honest. If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt alone  really alone  know that I get it. And know that being alone doesn’t mean being lost. It means being tested. Sharpened. Seasoned.

And if you're out there tonight, wide awake like me, staring into the dark... you're not the only one.

It is hard because I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like. I don’t know what i am supposed to do. I keep thinking it should feel more natural, i should just know but I don’t and therefore I am failing.

She asks me what I would have wanted from my parents and tbh that ship has sailed so long ago I can’t even begin to think. She asks me how would my parents have been reliable and the only thing I can come up with is that someone would have come to collect me when they said they would, which is pretty lame.

She asks me how I think I would feel if my mum had given me a kiss and told me she loved me when I was little. I tell her I can’t imagine and it just seems a kind of weird.