Tag: inner-child

  • Snacks

    I remember going to a supermarket with an ex, buying snacks, and doing what any sane human being would do, wanting to have a snack on the way back. I opened it, and he looked at me like I had just committed a crime. “Can’t you just wait until we’re back?” he said, in full snack-police mode. That killed the vibe. The mood. The entire snack timeline.

    Then later, with another guy, after I’d retired from mid-commute snacking due to previous trauma, he surprised me. He bought snacks for the way back. My inner child practically jumped up and down in joy inside my heart. “Finally, someone who gets it!”

    When I was little, around five, I convinced my parents to let me go to the supermarket alone because apparently I was already a fiercely independent grocery enthusiast. I bought myself a snack, sat at the park, and ate it before going home. Meanwhile, my parents were in full panic mode, convinced I’d been kidnapped. When they found me, just chilling, I said, “I got myself a snack for the way back.” They were speechless. I was snack-satisfied.

    I think that’s the thing about connection. The more someone brings out your inner child, the happier you are. Science even says we’re more likely to fall in love with people who remind us of our childhood. I lived that. He had my favorite childhood tea at his place, completely by coincidence. Then, as we hung out more, I kept rediscovering snacks from my childhood in a totally different country. Coincidence? Maybe. Magic? Absolutely. Drinking milk with milk chocolate? Love it. Late night candy? Yes please. My inner child was thriving. She finally felt safe. Seen. Snack-approved.

    Since I was a kid, I always wanted someone in my life I could bring shells to. He was that. I’d spend hours at the beach finding the most perfect ones to bring back. He’d put them around his apartment, and that, even if it sounds small, was a dream come true. He was the guy who made so many of my childhood and adult dreams come true. Not all, but most.

    It didn’t last, of course, but that’s beside the point. If there’s anything I miss from that connection, is how my inner child felt around him. Safe, happy and healed. 

    Now, I surround myself with people who bring that version of me out. The one who laughs with her whole heart. The one who gets overexcited about gummy bears. The one who loves animals, and shares food without being asked. When my inner child comes online instead of hiding in her room, I know I’m around the right people. It is not the same, but it doesn’t have to be.

    So yeah, snacks and candy, apparently, are my love language. If you ever want to win my heart? Don’t wait till we’re home. Just open the damn bag.

  • When exactly did we stop playing like children?

    Was it after our first heartbreak? Our first tax return? The moment we decided swings were “embarrassing” and seesaws were “unsafe for the lower back”?

    Because somewhere between learning how to spell “mortgage” and forgetting how to skip without pulling a hamstring, we lost something. Something soft. Something simple.

    We traded jungle gyms for gyms.

    Trampolines for treadmills.

    Sandboxes for deadlines.

    We started amping up our dopamine instead of just feeling joy.

    “More, faster, better,” became the new fun.

    Amusement parks on steroids. Screaming rollercoasters and overpriced food. All engineered thrills.

    But joy? Real, no-filter joy? That’s harder to come by.

    Sometimes, when the city’s asleep, I go to the children’s park to swing.

    Just me and the stars. Sometimes with my girlfriends. Grown women, hip pain and all, giggling like we’re six and school just let out. That kind of joy is raw. Untouched. Uncomplicated.

    One time, on a mountain trail, we found this giant wooden seesaw, made for four people. We took turns like kids at recess. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t “Instagrammable.” It was just fun. The kind of fun that forgets to check the time. That reminds you your soul still has a playground inside, even if your knees say otherwise.

    Then there was that time I told a local guy (during one of my travels) that I love visiting the zoo and petting the wild goats. He smiled like he had just remembered a long-forgotten memory.

    “Isn’t that for kids? We’ve done that before, so we don’t think of doing it again.”

    Why does something only count if it’s new, impressive, and expensive?

    Why can’t naming a wild goat Sao-Feng and imagining you’re soul-bonded be enough?

    I think it is enough.

    In fact, I think it’s everything.

    We’ve overcomplicated joy. We turned it into a performance instead of a feeling.

    Maybe if we let our inner children run barefoot again, pick daisies, jump in puddles, and squeal when we see a sleepy bear nibbling on grass mid-hibernation, we’d actually feel alive again.

    Because maybe, just maybe, growing up doesn’t mean growing out of the things that made our hearts light up.

    Maybe it means protecting them even harder.