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Bethany Howell (she/her/hers), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

I was asked a lot throughout my childhood what it was like to have no siblings. An answer couldn’t easily be formed. “Well,” I would say, “How am I supposed to know?” How could I? I had never known anything else. I found the question silly, like asking a fish what it’s like to swim. When truly trying to answer this question, however, I would say I enjoyed being an only child. Overall, I was quite happy growing up, getting all of the gifts and being showered with affection at my request. Most of the time, I loved being the center of attention and I loved all that was given to me from family. I loved the relatives that adored me – their first grandchild. More children came along, of course, from uncles and aunts, and I was no longer the only one, but I would always be the first in my grandparents’ eyes. 

However, there were times when I wished I had a sibling. I was given all the blame, all the brunt of my family’s burdens in my youth; this was the main reason I envied my peers, as they had siblings to push into the spotlight. I remember sitting alone while my parents were out, wishing I had  a sibling simply with whom to play board games and talk about crushes. I guessed that a close friend would do, but I was lacking that as well.

I was asked once or twice about why I am an only child and whether my parents had tried (and failed) to have more children. What a personal question that was, looking back, if not for me, for my mother. What if it were a medical condition? What if she only had me through extreme pain and suffering? Up until recently, I had believed my mom to have struggled with fertility in my youth, simply because of the number of times I had been told that that was probably the reason I was alone. Along with this, my father had told me it took years to have me – a lie to make me feel unworthy. He would hold above my head the pain my mother went through during labour, during childbirth, and dealing with an infant. I only realize as an adult that this too was manipulation and that he had never offered to help her. My father never truly raised me; my mother had raised me for the both of them, and that is something for which I look up to her.

For a long time, I did not plan on having children; I didn’t want to bring children into a bad world, and I realize now that is what my mother tried to avoid as well. But I also know that not having me would have been a waste of her love. Her role as a mother is one she took on with pride and with skill. Each day I think about all I am grateful for, and she is always at the top of my list. I see now that I too want to be like her. 

As I consider having children of my own, I ask myself the same question my mother was faced with – how many children should I have? My mother chose to not have another after me to save them from the pain that she found my father pushed onto me. I have no doubt in my mind that what she did was right. She did not want to bring someone into the world to feel pain. She, however, failed to account for another aspect of my early life – her influence. Her love for me was insurmountable and unimaginably vast. She saved me from so much, if not my father and my environment, then myself, and I love her more than I can express. I want to raise a child (or children), yes, in a world filled with inequality and pain, but in a bubble of my warmth and care. I want to adore my child(ren) the way I was adored. Though my younger self would disagree, life is worth the bad simply to experience the good and I would like to share that.

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My name is Bethany Howell and I am a third-year university student majoring in psychology and minoring in family and child studies. I have a passion for writing and mental health and my ultimate goal since age 13 has been to make a difference in the world through helping others, which is how I ended up here at Low Entropy!