Little Miss Independent: My Experience as an Only Child of Divorced Parents
As of now, my least favorite genre of media to consume is college admission advice, specifically TikTok videos that scrutinize your application for its “unappealing gaps” and “detrimental flaws.” As if the algorithm can sense when I’m having an exceptionally distressing day, these agitating dogmatists pop up on my feed, spewing more inexhaustible bouts of criticism. I see them encourage this conventional frame for the personal statement, an empirical essay submitted to nearly every school: an account of some tribulating experience that ultimately led to self-discovery, understanding, or growth.
When I sat down to draft this essay, my immediate thought was of my parents’ divorce. Regrettably, that is the exact narrative they disparage— it’s too common, not emotionally evocative, and well, just plain boring. But even if I were to write about their separation, what would I say? That it was traumatic? Unsettling? Conducive to a lifetime of emotional dysfunction and insecurity? As I paused to think, I realized that I actually had little memory of it.
Naturally, I confided in my oldest childhood friend, who told me she had some recollection, like that my mom took our cat, and other details most notable to a seven-year-old. But case in point, this story had no arc nor a resolution; it unraveled seamlessly into the rapids of time without remonstrance or purpose. This is how I’d grown to understand my parents’ separation, so I was particularly bemused when I visited my grandma a few weeks ago and she digressed unexpectedly, consoling me: “Cooper, I’m sorry that your parents got divorced.” I sat there blinking, trying to understand what was so regretful about that. I told her it didn’t affect me, only that statement didn’t feel true.
Months ago, one of my friends turned to me at lunch and said, “Cooper, you’re so independent.” She went on to mention how I commanded my own schedule, rarely ever mentioned my parents, did my own grocery shopping, and cooked for myself. I personally didn’t attribute these habits to self-efficacy. My mom, rather, had drilled into me that financial autonomy was the fundamental conduit of independence, and I was still undeniably dependent on my parents for money. But the comment did spark the question: Why am I like this? I honestly think, at least in part, that it’s because of my parents’ divorce.
When I think back, I remember that the first few years were discombobulating. From ages 7 to 8, I didn’t know there was a word for my parents’ circumstance. It wasn’t until second grade when a classmate cooly mentioned how their parents were “divorced” that I really began to connect the dots.
My schedule panned out like this: Monday and Tuesday with Dad, Wednesday and Thursday with Mom, and alternating weekends. I began to associate Dad’s days with orangish yellows, the sun, and summer, while Mom’s time resembled a purpled blue, nighttime, and winter. These schemas emerged in part because of how my parents presented: my dad was white and gentle-tempered; my mom had dark hair and deep, all-knowing eyes. Though fundamentally, they instilled a sense of order. In this alternating reality, the yin-yang of days, colors, sensations, and moods eventually settled into a comfortably rhythmic pattern that was sensical and predictable.
From beneath that swinging pendulum emerged what I think of as “the mediator”: the part of me who maintains this routine through adaptability and organization. I continue to see this figure in my carefully structured calendar of due dates and exam reminders, or in my preference for cohesively colored clothes. Everything is uniformly fitted (or folded) into an arrangement that a friend once described as “put together.”
Though that isn’t to say this system was simple. I often felt scattered among my own belongings, which were dispersed between my two houses. If I hadn’t finished doctoring my dolls on Sunday night at Mom’s, they had to come with me to school on Monday, stuffed down at the bottom of my backpack so that I could continue playing at Dad’s house that afternoon. If I had a soccer game on Mom’s weekend, my jersey and cleats needed to be with me midweek when I transitioned custody. My French horn was lugged to the band room on Friday, even if rehearsal wasn’t until Monday.
Not only were these inconveniences annoying, they were frustrating. I found myself explaining to school friends why I carried so many bags, or why I made two Christmas cards during the holidays instead of one. In these small but visible ways, I felt out of place among my classmates who lived in steady nuclear families. The incongruency was noticeable to me at a young age—not that any of my peers really cared or fully understood—but it was uncomfortable to feel different.
From that feeling, I had to develop some form of self-preserving confidence. I learned with practice to assertively say, “I have to make two because I have two different homes.” That definitiveness has stuck with me, and I command it through my bullshit intolerant personality.
I also think that living on the move made me uncomfortable with stillness. As I got older, my interests and sense of style, from my clothes to my hair, shifted constantly. A few years ago, my uncle, whom I saw only once or twice a year, told me, “I like that you look different every time I see you,” and I suddenly became self-conscious of my many ephemeral identities.
In time, I also learned how to navigate the fractured relationship of my two estranged parents. Meandering through that tension to relay a message to Dad like, “Mom said to reload my lunch account,” to then confer with Mom, “Dad said he paid it last time,” was chaotic. Any trace of hostility from one parent stuck with me, and there were moments I remember feeling resentful. I didn’t know which one to trust, and without a sibling to offer another perspective, every conclusion I drew was derived from my own nascent intuition.
It was a path I treaded mostly on my own, and I believe that this journey taught me to enjoy doing things alone— to think alone, spend time alone, and find joy in being alone. Without siblings to fill the quiet, I entertained my boredom with my cellphone, filming videos of myself playing solo or taking countless pictures to piece into a stop motion animation. I also sewed, painted, drew, and daydreamed. These hobbies absorbed hours of my time, and gradually, I learned that my own company was not lonely but reliably peaceful.
In other ways, the recovery period presented challenges for my parents, who were still committed to conscientiously raising their kid. Amidst the confusion and emotional dissonance, I became comfortable in my own solitude.
Once I became a teenager, I gained more autonomy and started exploring Seattle with public transportation. I rode dozens of buses from school to grab boba or thrift. Back when the 1 Line only ran from Northgate to Angle Lake, I traversed the Ave, Capitol Hill, and the International District. My parents never dissuaded my miniature odysseys; in fact, they encouraged them. My Dad, who’d spent his whole life in Seattle, trusted I’d be safe in the city, and my Mom, who was raised as a free-range kid likewise endorsed adventure. I was left with my own devices, a pre-paid MetroCard, and a trinity of trusty navigation apps. I naturally grew to prefer directing myself, especially since I only had to check in with one parent at a time.
Although I occasionally question whether I missed out on certain family events, vacations, and shared activities, I remind myself that my parents consistently provided for me. At least one of them showed up to every soccer game, musical theatre performance, and recital. Both took the initiative to host my birthday parties and plan vacations. Both supported my interests and hobbies. I was never deprived of what I needed and that, bottom line, is most important.
I didn’t end up writing my college essay about my parents’ divorce. For me, their separation wasn’t one big event that catapulted my life into years of hardship, and it wasn’t an obstacle I consciously overcame; instead, it was a way of living that I gradually grew into. I know it shaped who I am in both positive and negative ways—toward independence or fickleness—but that ultimately, is simply life. Some things are good, and some things are not, and most experiences certainly contain a measure of both.