Who Am I Now?
One of the first struggles I faced after losing my son, Jet, was this question:
“Who am I?”
Who am I if I’ve lost my only child?
Who am I if I no longer have someone to care for and tend to as I had for the past 18 years?
Who am I if the future I imagined is gone?
How an Only Child Becomes Your Whole World
(Please know, before you read any further, that I do not diminish the feeling or impact of loss on any mom with more than one child. This is purely my personal experience and something that has often made me feel alone and not fully understood.)
When you have an only child, parenting doesn’t divide your attention—it concentrates it.
There is no sharing time between siblings, no balancing one child’s needs against another’s. Every ounce of energy, worry, joy, hope, and responsibility flows in one direction. That child becomes the center of your daily rhythms and long-term vision, not because you choose it intentionally, but because that is simply how life unfolds.
Your schedule is built around one person. Their school calendar becomes your calendar. Their interests shape your weekends. Their victories feel monumental, and their struggles feel deeply personal. You are not just raising a child—you are investing your entire self into one life.
As a parent of an only child, you don’t get to step back. There is no “tag team” with siblings, no built-in distraction when things feel heavy. You are fully present for every stage, every season, every transition. And over time, that presence quietly becomes identity.
Without realizing it, your sense of purpose shifts. You are needed in a way that feels constant and irreplaceable. You are the organizer, the encourager, the safety net, the witness to every moment. Caring for them isn’t something you do—it’s who you are.
So when that child is gone, the loss doesn't just feel like a part of you is gone, but that you, yourself are gone.
The life you built—your routines, your priorities, your sense of direction—suddenly has no reference point. The quiet feels louder. Time stretches differently. Losing an only child doesn’t just break your heart—it dismantles the framework of your everyday life. And the question “Who am I now?” doesn’t come from selfishness, but from the shock of having poured your whole self into one role that no longer exists.
A role. That's exactly what being a mom is. Whether you're a mom to one or a dozen children, learning who you are apart from that role takes time, grace, and a redefining that can only happen slowly and with God's help.
When Roles Become Our Identity
As humans, we often attach too much of our identity to the people we care for, the careers we pursue, or the roles we step into without realizing how deeply they shape us: mom, dad, teacher, sister, brother, pastor, business owner, etc.
We live in a constant pursuit of becoming something, being something, excelling at something—striving to make a difference and searching for our purpose. It becomes a non-stop race for achievement and success. And typically, this is how we measure our value.
But in reality, these are all simply roles we take on.
Roles don’t define our worth; they define our assignment.
And assignments can change.
If we allow any single role to determine “who I am,” our identity becomes fragile—easily shaken when that role is lost or removed.
A Better Question
But when we shift our focus from “Who am I?” to “Whose am I?”, our foundation remains steady.
Anchored in Truth
1 John 3:1 says:
“The Father has loved us so much! This shows how much he loved us: We are called children of God. And we really are his children.”
As sons and daughters of God, we don’t have to strive to achieve or become anything in order to receive His love. Our value comes from being made in His own image to reflect His character, glorify Him, and exist in a loving relationship with Him - not from how successful we are at work or how well we fulfill a role.
When we learn to see ourselves through His eyes, rather than seeking validation from people or things of this world, we can stand firm—even when life pulls the rug out from under us.
What Never Changes
So much can change in a single moment. The people we love, the paths we walk, and the futures we imagined can shift in ways we never anticipated. But our value does not rise and fall with what we do, who we care for, or what season we’re in. We are not defined by what we’ve lost or what we can no longer hold.
We are defined by He who holds us.
You are more than the roles you carry.
You are deeply loved, chosen, and held.