People have a lot of misconceptions about only children. The moment you tell someone you don’t have siblings, you can almost see the stereotypes flashing behind their eyes. They think we’re all spoiled, sheltered, and bratty.

And look, to be fair, that is the case for some. Some only children don’t know how to work for themselves because they’re used to getting everything handed to them on a silver platter.

But that’s not me.

My reality was a masterclass in hard work. I grew up with parents who fought to get to where they are through their struggles. They possessed a relentless grit, and that driven mindset was deeply ingrained in me from the very beginning. I wasn’t sitting around being pampered; I was working in our family business and volunteering from the time I was eleven years old.

When it came time for college, yes, I had family help—but that didn’t mean I sat back and coasted. Driven by that same work ethic my parents modeled, I balanced my classes while working multiple jobs during those years to pay.

For me, being an only child didn’t make me spoiled—it ingrained the idea of not waiting.

When you grow up without a built-in pack of siblings, your baseline is different. I became fiercely inclined to handle things myself. If asking for help means I’ll be a bother to someone else, I’d rather just hyper-focus and figure it out on my own. I would always rather map out a way to get to something myself than sit around waiting for someone to deliver it to me. Because I didn’t grow up with a ready-made community at home, I had to learn how to step out, put myself out there, and build one from scratch.

It programmed me to be strong, independent, and driven.

But lately, I’ve been realizing the flip side of that programming.

When your default mode is “I’ll just handle it,” a forced waiting period feels like a crisis. When life slows down, or when a door closes and no amount of my own striving or work ethic can pry it open, my independence turns into worry. I start trying to engineer my own breakthroughs because waiting feels like failing.

That is exactly where the shift has to happen.

I am learning that the waiting period isn’t a punishment for my lack of control; it’s a designated moment where I am required to rest on God’s power, not my own.

As someone who is used to running on my own fuel, I am constantly reminded of Isaiah 40:29-31:

“He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”

For an only child who built an identity on being a self-starter, surrendering control is terrifying. It goes against everything I programmed myself to be. But the truth is, my strength has a ceiling. My hyper-independence can only carry me so far before it turns into burnout.

When I am forced to wait, God is gently reminding me of what He told Paul in 2 Corinthians 12:9: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

I don’t have to carry the world on my shoulders. I don’t have to figure out every single route by myself. In the quiet of the wait, I am learning to trade my striving for His strength, and my control for His peace. I’m still driven, and I’m still strong—but I’m learning to be strong in Him.