i think i grew up too fast

on losing your spark, becoming guarded so young, and learning to embrace your inner child

The other week, I was sitting on the steps on my lunch break, overlooking the water. My earphones were in and I was doing my best to tune out the world. To block out the noise of my thoughts, the buzz crowding my brain. It had been a long day - hell, it had been a long week. And it was only Tuesday.

Suddenly I saw a flash of colour in my peripheral. A kid - around ten or eleven - ran past me in the most outrageously orange outfit I had ever seen, a streak of neon. She left a trail of water droplets in her midst, and so naturally I assumed that she’d just taken a quick dip in the water.

I could never wear that colour, was my first thought.

My second; how clean is that water?

Suddenly there was a yelp and I turned to see said kid on the floor. I assume she had slipped and fallen over. Right in front of everyone. I waited, partly to make sure she wasn’t hurt, but also cringing slightly at the embarrassment she would feel. At the embarrassment I felt.

But instead, she simply got up, brushed herself off and continued running. Just like that, she was off, leaving a trail of water behind her. Rushing headfirst into the next adventure.

Something about this stayed with me. Refused to leave my brain, as it would have on any ordinary day.

And perhaps this is me turning every encounter into a metaphor or a lesson or something deeper than it really needs to be. But I thought it was quite a beautiful representation of life:

Sometimes we encounter hurdles. We may fall or take a bit of a tumble, and it might feel humiliating, painful, mortifying. But it’s as simple as getting back up and continuing on.

No fuss, no embarrassment, no lingering shame. Just laughing at your mistakes and moving forward.

Meanwhile, this was the kind of incident that would have no doubt kept me awake at night.

And so the thought came like an exhale. Unprompted, rushed, and all at once;

I miss being a kid.

Not just the ability to get up from a gut wrenching fall unscathed, though I am a lot older now, and my bones are a little more brittle.

I miss being blissfully unaware. I miss romanticising the little things. Being excited for the future.

The only time I run towards anything now is when I’m late - late to catch the train, late to work. Never from excitement. Never because I can’t wait to get there.

Why were we in such a rush to grow up?

Growing up, I was the kid who confidently raised their hand in class to announce the wrong answer, just because I had something to say. And that was better than not saying anything at all.

I was the kid with an abundance of ambition, dreams that were endless and sky high. I wanted to be a lawyer and a princess and a teacher.

Now, my constant overthinking makes me doubt if I’d even be good at one of those jobs, if I would immediately crash and burn, if the money would be enough.

My self worth wasn’t as fragile. If someone commented on my appearance, I wouldn’t spend days internalising it, replaying the memory again and again until I’d ripped all my self worth into shreds.

Back then, I wasn’t yet attuned to the unspoken. The careful silences. Thinly veiled tensions.

I didn’t notice the effort it took to paint a perfect picture. The weight of social rules and the sharp judgement of a single look.

And yes, I do think a part of it is me romanticising what was. We usually tend to look at the past with rose tinted glasses, fonder memories than what we actually experienced.

In some ways it’s easier to be naively content. To feel the magic and wonder of life.

When being a grown up feels like such a far-away abstract concept, with endless possibilities and freedoms.

And I don’t know when it happened, but one day the rose coloured glasses slipped off.

Responsibility crept in quietly and took up all the space wonder used to occupy. Life became about managing, maintaining, holding it all together. About being sensible. Practical. Realistic.

Not being too confident, because that meant you were stuck up. But also not being too nice, because that meant you were weak.

Everything started to feel heavier. Long gone were the days of going to sleep excited for the next day. I started to sleep in for as long as I could, because I was constantly tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fully fix.

There was no more room for silliness, no more place to do things just because it felt good. I told myself it was maturity, a part of growing up. But now I see it for what it really is: a loss of joy and a loss of self.

Happiness stopped arriving unannounced. It became something conditional - something I needed to earn and justify, to fit in between all the expectations and obligations I suddenly found myself facing.

Excitement was replaced with caution. Curiosity by overthinking and self doubt. I started second guessing decisions, questioning myself, even when I felt sure.

Somewhere along the way I stopped believing the world was inherently kind and started treating it like something to brace against. It doesn’t help that there are so many terrible things happening - a seemingly endless cycle of pain and suffering.

I learned to anticipate disappointment before it arrived. To soften the blow before it could even have a chance to land, to lower my expectations before they could be taken from me. To romanticise less and question more.

This is my biggest defence mechanism, even to this day.

Looking back now, I think this pattern started earlier than I realised. Because of my home environment, I learned to navigate hardship before I learned how to be happy, before I learned how to build real self confidence.

I became acutely aware of the fragility of things, of how easily they could go wrong.

That kind of awareness is hard to unlearn. Once it settles in and makes itself at home, you carry it with you through the rest of your life. Through your formative years, then into adulthood, relationships, and eventually into your own families.

And it’s a certain kind of quiet sadness that as we grow up, the world slowly loses its colour, kind of the way the sun disappears without you really noticing.

But watching that kid running past me during my lunch break, soaked and laughing, able to pick herself up after a soul-wrenching fall, healed something within me.

Because it reminded me of a time in my life where I too was able to move through the world without constantly monitoring myself. Without the running critiques and self consciousness and self doubt.

Maybe embracing your inner child isn’t about going back to the past, pretending that life and responsibility doesn’t exist. Maybe it’s not about choosing between two extremes, but rather existing within the softer, middle ground.

Maybe it’s about making room for lightness again. Allowing joy to show up without needing a reason. Doing things that don’t lead anywhere, don’t make you better or more productive or more put together.

Things that simply make you buzz, feel alive.

Choosing curiosity over cynicism, even when being guarded feels safer. Reminding yourself that not everything has to be earned for you to be deserving of it.

And maybe a part of growing up is grieving that loss as well, letting yourself feel sad that things don’t feel the way they used to.

Recently, I’ve challenged myself to make more room for play. To embrace my inner child. Do more things that carry the same sense of wonder.

To dance in the rain instead of worrying about my hair frizzing up. To laugh out loud with joy instead of thinking about the next thing on my to-do list. To get excited by the sound of an ice cream truck instead of instinctively calculating how many calories I’ve already had that day.

You may not feel the same lightness you once did. Joy may take more effort now. But these are the things that keep us young. Energised. Alive.

And maybe we don’t have to leave them behind after all.

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