I Want That Child-like Wonder Back

Remember when we were kids and used to listen to songs without understanding what they really meant? We’d watch comedy movies, oblivious to every pun, every euphemism, every drop of sarcasm. And then, one day, we began to understand the meaning behind the lyrics, the pop culture references, the R-rated movies we weren’t supposed to be watching, especially because our mothers warned us not to.

Remember the moment you finally got why people fell in love in sitcoms? Why did adults hold hands while taking a slow, romantic stroll? Remember when you first started to wonder what it would feel like to grow up and become somebody? You were certain you would. Somebody great. That age when you began forming your own opinions, not the ones your parents gave you. That magical turning point when you realized you are your own person. You swore you’d never be like them. Back then, anything was possible. There wasn’t a single thing you couldn’t do. “Just wait until I grow up,” you’d whisper to yourself.

It was late summer, and it had started raining. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. I was a dramatic child, with a world of her own inside her little head. She rarely stepped out of it. And then it hit me, I was now a seventh grader. It felt big. It felt important. Serious. I was transferring to a new school. A fresh beginning. New school, new me, in a growing and changing body. A late bloomer, lost in my own illusions. I thought I had it all figured out. I deemed myself an adult while still clinging to childhood. I judged my younger self for how she acted, only to realize, even then, I was still just a child. Unprepared. Soft. Wondering.

As a child, I was a planner. I had a vision: which school I’d attend for grades 11 and 12, which university I’d join, and the major I’d choose. But life clipped my wings and shoved reality down my throat. And yet, despite everything, every phase I went through, every version of myself I became, one constant remained: my passion for writing. That unstoppable urge to express myself. The chaos of words and emotions boiled in my head until I scribbled them down. And the relief that followed.

I want that child-like wonder back. I want to see possibilities in everything again. I want to unlearn shame. To see the world in bright, unmuddied colors. I want to scribble atrociously with crayons and proudly call it art. I want to believe in myself like I once did. I want to hope again, fiercely, stubbornly, that the world will get better.

But what is a girl to do with all this confusion? 

Maybe growing up isn’t about shedding the child inside you. It’s about holding her hand when the world gets too loud. It’s about learning to dream again, not because it’s easy, but because it's necessary. Because life will disappoint you, break you, twist your plans into something unrecognizable. But even in the mess, in the heartbreak and lost certainty, that child, your inner dreamer, waits patiently for you to remember her. And maybe growing up means choosing, every single day, to wonder anyway. To hope anyway. To believe, even now, that anything is still possible.