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To be childlike...
Yesterday, I was sitting in the children’s day service my church had organised to mark the upcoming Children’s Day. It was a pleasant surprise; the children had practiced to anchor the whole service, and it was so beautiful. They presented spoken words, choreographed a piece, recited memory verses, and even acted out dramatic events that would deeply trigger me.
Somewhere in between these presentations, I began to cry, not cry with small tears falling here and there, but I full-blown wailed, I was weeping basically (to skip all the English). I was caught off guard and perplexed cause what was sad/ why was I crying?
Maybe it was because while watching them, I was suddenly confronted with how soft childhood is supposed to be.
How safe it felt infact.
How, at that age, the world was still mostly filtered for me. The adults carried the weight of reality on their shoulders. The conversations around bills were happening in hushed tones behind closed doors. I never got to calculate hunger. I slept deeply because someone else was staying awake to make sure life continues functioning. My biggest concerns were which cartoons were airing on TV, whether my friend would sit beside me in class tomorrow, and whether my mum had packed my favourite thing to eat in school.
And as I watched those children laugh without restraint, forgetting lines during their presentations and giggling into the microphones, I realised that somewhere along the line, life quietly demanded that I stop being childlike.
Not childish. Childlike.
There is a difference.
Childishness is immaturity, but childlikeness is softness. It is existing without constantly carrying the burden of survival in your chest. It is believing someone will catch you if you fall. It is waking up every day without the anxiety of becoming. Without the pressure to figure life out quickly because time is moving and everyone else seems ahead.
I think that was what broke me yesterday.
Because I remembered what it felt like to simply exist.
To come home from school and throw my bag somewhere carelessly because my only assignment was to rest. To hear my parents talking in the sitting room and know, with complete confidence, that whatever happened in this house was being handled by adults far more capable than I was. I remembered the luxury of not knowing things. Not knowing how expensive living was. Not understanding disappointment. Not yet realising that some prayers take years to answer. That some friendships end. That some people leave. That growing up is mostly about learning how to keep going anyway.
As a child, I thought adulthood looked freeing. I wanted to grow quickly. I wanted independence. I thought making my own decisions meant happiness. But nobody really explains that, with independence comes the terrifying reality that eventually, no one can make certain decisions for you anymore. Nobody can shield you forever from grief, uncertainty, failure, heartbreak, fear, loneliness, or the quiet exhaustion of constantly having to keep going.
And maybe that is why I cried so hard.
Because I miss being protected from the harshness of the world.
I miss knowing that if things went wrong, my parents would somehow fix it. I miss when “home” felt like a solution to everything. When food appeared without me thinking about inflation. When school fees were paid without my understanding the sacrifice behind them. When I could sleep through the night without my mind racing through deadlines, expectations, future plans, responsibilities, and fears about whether everything would eventually work out.
There is something deeply exhausting about becoming aware of the world.
About realising your parents are human too. That they were figuring life out while raising you. That the people you once thought had all the answers were also just trying their best. Growing up is strange because one day, you suddenly notice the worry in your mother’s eyes. You notice that the safety net you once stood on so confidently is not invincible.
And then life quietly hands you your own responsibilities.
Your own fears.
Your own burdens.
And you carry them because you have no choice.
That is why those children wrecked me yesterday. Watching them felt like looking through a window into a version of myself that no longer exists. A version untouched by the realities I now know too well. They were dancing freely while I sat there thinking about how adulthood often feels like constantly performing strength, even when you are tired.
Even joy changes as you grow older.
As children, joy was loud and uncomplicated. Ice cream after church. New shoes for Christmas. Running outside when NEPA brought light. Watching your favourite TV show after homework. Little things carried enormous happiness because your heart was still light enough to hold wonder.
Now, even in moments of happiness, there is always something waiting in the background. A responsibility. An unanswered email. A bill. A fear. A timeline. A pressure. Rest no longer feels complete because your mind rarely stops working.
And honestly?
Sometimes I want someone else to take over for a while.
I want someone to tell me everything will be okay and actually mean it with certainty. I want to hand over the burden of decision-making. I want to exist somewhere soft again. Somewhere life is not constantly asking me who I am becoming. Somewhere I can just be.
I think that is why childhood memories feel so sacred as we grow older. Not because everything was perfect, but because we were allowed to be held. Allowed to be cared for. Allowed to not know everything.
Yesterday reminded me of the grief attached to growing up that nobody really talks about. The grief of losing the version of yourself that once saw the world with uncomplicated eyes. The version that trusted easily. Rested fully. Loved openly. Dreamed fearlessly.
And oh, what I would give to feel that kind of lightness again.
What I would give to be childlike.