Updated: Jan. 26, 2016
Originally Published: Jan. 26, 2016
On Christmas morning, I found myself snuggled up in bed with my son, Oliver, who was just shy of turning three. As he was engrossed in cartoons on my tablet, I flipped through the pages of a book resting on my lap. It was his first Christmas that he might actually remember, and I told myself that the holidays didn’t matter that much to me. I convinced myself I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it; I wanted to avoid the commercialized sentiment that often overshadows the true essence of this special time. But deep down, I knew I was avoiding the truth.
Being a single mother was never in my plans. I had always believed that divorce was not an option; I would tough it out. However, life had other plans, and eventually, I realized that leaving was the healthiest choice for both Oliver and me. I walked out of that chapter of my life, carrying bags and a little sandy-haired boy who was holding on tightly to me, exactly where he belonged.
In those early months, I dedicated my nights to laying next to Oliver, helping him drift off to sleep. Each night, I marveled at the rise and fall of his tiny chest, the way the dim hallway light danced on his eyelashes, and with every moment, he stole my heart again. I felt a rush of pride raising such a sweet boy, and joy filled my heart knowing he was mine. Yet, amidst this overwhelming love, feelings of inadequacy crept in.
I wished I could provide him with more: better financial security, nicer gifts, and a complete family. I couldn’t shake the feeling that just being me wasn’t enough.
Growing up in a traditional family, where my parents are still together, I always viewed that model as the ideal. I was one of three siblings, and although my parents faced their own challenges, we never lacked for love or support. I had friends whose families were separated, and I felt a sense of sorrow for them. Their situations felt broken compared to my own. I never realized how much I was internalizing that stigma.
Every parent strives to provide the best for their child, hoping for their mental, emotional, and physical well-being. But what happens when you fear that the one thing you can’t give them is a conventional family? What if the path to a healthy home means stepping away from the traditional model and embracing the reality of single parenting?
Despite knowing that I was doing my best for Oliver, shame overwhelmed me whenever I thought about not being able to give him a typical family structure. It was only the day after Christmas, running errands in our car, that I confronted the truth I had been avoiding. I realized that the lack of celebration stemmed from my belief that a family of two wasn’t a “real” family.
I had been the one imposing negativity on our family dynamic. I was the one who believed that Oliver and I—just the two of us—didn’t count as a family. But as I reflected on my thoughts, the absurdity of that notion struck me. A family of two is still a family, and love defines a family more than numbers ever could. Together, Oliver and I have love, support, and each other.
It was time for me to redefine what family meant to me. Oliver and I are enough, just as we are.
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In summary, embracing our family of two has brought me a sense of peace and fulfillment. We define our own family, fueled by love and connection, proving that size doesn’t dictate strength.