From the moment I first held my daughter, I knew my life had changed forever. The rush of love, the overwhelming sense of responsibility, the quiet realization that my heart would forever walk outside my body—it was all-consuming. But what I didn’t fully grasp in those early days, was that she wouldn’t just be my first child. She would also be my last.
If you know me, you might know a bit about our birth story and understand why we knew pretty early on that she would be our only. If you’re new here, a brief recap—at 30 weeks, we found out (pretty abruptly) that I had severe preeclampsia and HELLP syndrome features. We were sent to labor and delivery right away, and after a few days of magnesium and steroid injections, it was time to have our sweet baby girl. We had a gigantic team of NICU doctors and nurses who saved her. She had a two-month NICU stay during the summer of 2020—talk about a wild ride. Fast forward about eight months, we consulted with three maternal-fetal medicine doctors (one who legitimately saved my daughter’s and my life for being thorough, thank you, Dr. McWeeney!), and they all expressed concerns with a second pregnancy based on my medical history and first pregnancy outcome. With that, we decided to count our blessings and accept that our little miracle baby would be our only.
Raising an only child is a unique and profound experience, filled with joys, challenges, and a depth of love that is difficult to put into words. It means cherishing every milestone just a little more because there won’t be another first step, another first word, another first day of school. Every “first” is also a “last,” making time feel even more fleeting. It’s truly overwhelming at times. Sometimes the hardest part, is that you never know when it’s the “last time” until after it’s over (and often after it’s been a while). The last time she nursed, the last time she mispronounced a word, the last time she needed to be rocked to sleep. So many little things that really are big things, especially when you won’t get to experience them with another baby.
There’s a special kind of bond that forms when your child is your one and only (in fairness, not that I have any comparison). She is my little shadow, my greatest adventure, my daily reminder of how precious and fast this life moves. There is no dividing attention between siblings, no feeling like I am stretched too thin between multiple little hands reaching for me. Instead, she gets my whole heart, and I get hers in return (well, what’s left after Dada’s portion).
But with that singular bond comes a unique kind of pressure—on me as a parent and on her as my child. There are times when I worry: Will she be lonely? Am I enough? Without siblings, who will she turn to when her dad and I are gone? These questions creep into my heart more often than I’d like to admit. But then I see her, thriving, full of laughter, building friendships that feel like family, and I remind myself that love is not measured by numbers but by depth.
Being a mother to an only child means navigating a path that is both incredibly full and, at times, achingly finite. There are no do-overs, no second chances to relive the baby years, the toddler giggles, or the school-age wonder. (I want to acknowledge, that even having another doesn’t mean you get to relive this with your baby.. but you get these kinds of moments again). Every stage she grows out of is one I say goodbye to forever. But in this, I have learned the beauty of being present—of soaking in every moment, of holding her a little longer, of memorizing the way her small hand still fits in mine before the day comes when it doesn’t anymore.
When your first is also your last, you love with an intensity that is both breathtaking and bittersweet. You learn to embrace the uniqueness of your journey, to silence the world’s expectations, and to pour your heart fully into the child who will always be your one and only.
And perhaps, in the end, that is more than enough.
xoxo Amanda
HUGS. 💗💗💗