When getting older means gaining more childlike wonder

anxious girl falls in love with life

However anxious I may seem as an adult (which if you ever get to peak into my brain in realtime, is very), I can assure you I wasn’t any more rational as a child. In many ways, my head was worse, I just didn’t have the language to describe it then.

I felt strange but not in an endearing way. I never once completed a handstand or cartwheel, not because I was physically unable but because I could never let go enough to fall and trust the ground (unfortunately, Elsa wasn’t around to give advice when I was in primary school). There was a mental block for me that caused some casual childhood activities to feel horribly impossible.

While I possessed a loud cackle and had my moments smiling on stage, there was a side of me that wouldn’t dare climb trees or go fast on my bike – terrified of falling, cursing my parents’ choices while cycling behind them on a main road. I kept quiet when friends had conflict, sitting in the middle of a fence because I was too scared of consequences. What would happen if I spoke my mind, let my words run wild in a risky environment? I didn’t know, but I did know I wasn’t ready to find out.

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I see a litany of wishes from twenty-somethings wanting to go back to childhood, and I couldn’t relate less. As an adult, I’m far more in tune with what I can and cannot control. And I can do all these beautiful things: travel, choose what I eat for dinner, write online, be a lesbian, change my entire life by switching up my job or location… if I want to. I can pack a large backpack and swim in the sea, and I don’t need to ask anyone’s permission to do it. Admittedly, sometimes I do feel like I need permission from society or the people I love, but I’m also a million miles away from the girl I was in childhood – she held herself back without good reason, time and time again.

People talk about losing childlike wonder as they get older, but I feel I’ve only gained more of it with age. I used to look at mountain scenery and think it was pretty, but as an adult, its beauty could physically stop me. Now, I make an active effort to store landscapes in my memories, finding more reasons to laugh as I skip through them. I know how to stop and stare, aware of what to appreciate. A sunset on the beach is a blessing, but I’m sure a smaller version of me wouldn’t even think to care, instead consumed by my brain’s worries.

Everything wondrous that was ordinary to me as a kid – and ran away from me as a teenager – is now something I hold onto like uncovered treasure. I was sitting on my living room floor the spring before Europe’s Eras tour, making more friendship bracelets than I could keep track of with Dance Moms humming in the background. My bracelets weren’t “good” but what was important was how I made them – and they were mine to give away and trade. I’m convinced I had more joy in those moments than any craft I attempted as a kid, the wholesomeness of it threaded into my happiness.

When I’ve worked with young people, I’ve had the opportunity to be the person I once needed – the one who looks out for the quiet kid in a corner, who listens, who laughs at their jokes and asks questions about books or video games. I’m the adult who doesn’t have to fake interest, because I’m genuinely intrigued by what kids have to say. I’m also the person to dance absurdly and encourage others to join in, so if anyone’s a self-conscious dancer, they’re safe in knowing they won’t look like me.

I think kids are amazing, but I don’t miss being one of them. I’ve sat in rooms with children where I know if I were one of them, I’d be silently sitting on the sidelines, sick with anxiety. As an adult, I have a power that I get to use for good. I can see the bigger picture and fight for that perspective, when it feels like the world is being too harsh on sweet souls.

I want the world to listen to children more, and value their honest words. Kids often see a version of reality that’s so transparent and full of possibilities, and it’s a way of experiencing the world that I feel closer to now than I’ve done in years. There’s a lot of talk of whimsy on the internet these days, and I think whimsy at its core is to value light and fun and freedom – things that used to live in the shadows of my introspection, so I now make sure they see sunshine. This is why I get so sentimental over girlhood – this is why glitter and playfulness matter beyond surface-level aesthetics.

I don’t yearn to be a child again, but I want to stay connected to the wisdom and humour children have, and I want to look out for the kids who find being a kid difficult. This doesn’t mean I’m moving backwards. I think being around children, as adults, helps us move forwards – shining light on what we missed, and what we can do better.

I’m determined to do better, and I’ll do it while skipping on the beach, and dancing in the rain, and wearing temporary tattoos. Maybe one day I’ll even master a cartwheel.

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