unlearning adulthood

if i close my eyes and listen carefully, i can still hear her. the small version of me. she’s not as loud as she used to be, but her whispers come through—tiny fragments of a voice i once ignored. she asks questions that make me wince: why did you stop painting on the weekends? why did you give up singing to the radio when no one’s home? why does everything have to feel so heavy now?

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she isn’t angry—she’s confused. the life she imagined for us didn’t look like this. she thought we’d be brave, carefree, maybe even whimsical. but somewhere along the way, i swapped imagination for practicality, traded her sense of wonder for the need to always get it right. i silenced her because the world said she wasn’t important.

i didn’t really understand the concept of the “inner child” until much later. to me, it sounded like one of those things you’d find in self-help books: vague, feel-good advice for people trying to avoid real problems. i wasn’t sure what she had to do with my life now, as an adult with bills to pay, deadlines to meet, and responsibilities that left little room for indulgent reflection.

but i was wrong.

i found her in therapy, during a conversation about my anxiety. my therapist gently guided me to a place i hadn’t dared revisit—a memory of feeling small, unprotected, and unsure of how to navigate a world that often felt too big. it was in that moment that i realized the things i dismissed as “childhood” were actually roots of patterns that shaped my adult life. my need to achieve, my fear of failure, my constant quest for validation—they all traced back to a little girl who just wanted to feel seen.

the inner child isn’t just a metaphor. she’s a psychological framework with roots in the work of carl jung, john bradshaw, and other thinkers who believed that our childhood selves hold the blueprint of our authentic being. she represents our playfulness, creativity, and vulnerability—qualities the world often forces us to suppress. reconnecting with her isn’t about nostalgia. it’s about healing.

at first, the idea of tending to my inner child felt ridiculous. i couldn’t picture myself sitting on the floor, metaphorically “playing” with this long-forgotten version of me. it felt frivolous, like a game with no rules. but i started small. i pulled out a dusty sketchbook i hadn’t touched in years. i wasn’t sure why i chose drawing—it just felt…safe, familiar. the first few attempts were awkward, like trying to speak a language i’d forgotten. but with every line i drew, i felt something shift. it wasn’t about the quality of the art. it was about the act of doing something that wasn’t measured by success.

what i learned is that the inner child doesn’t care about outcomes. she doesn’t care if the painting is perfect or if the song is off-key. she cares about joy, about presence, about feeling alive. and in a world that constantly demands we prove our worth, that’s a radical thing to hold onto.

philosopher alan watts often spoke about the importance of play as a cornerstone of human existence. play, he argued, is not frivolous; it’s a profound way of engaging with life. when we play, we suspend judgment, embrace curiosity, and create without fear of failure. in many ways, reconnecting with your inner child is about returning to that state—not because life is simple, but because simplicity can be liberating.

as i deepened this journey, i found that my inner child wasn’t just about creativity or hobbies. she was the keeper of truths i’d buried. she reminded me of the time i cried after my first art competition because someone laughed at my painting. or how i stopped writing poetry in high school because i didn’t think i was “good enough.” she carried all the hurt i’d tried to forget, not out of spite, but because she knew those wounds deserved acknowledgment.

researchers like dr. gabor maté emphasize that childhood wounds don’t just disappear; they morph into patterns that dictate our adult lives. the perfectionism that drives me to exhaustion, the need for external validation, the fear of making mistakes—all of it stems from moments when my inner child felt unseen. healing isn’t about erasing those moments. it’s about saying, “i see you now.”

one of the hardest parts of this work is realizing how often i ignored her. there were times when she asked me to slow down, to take a break, to do something just for fun—and i brushed her off. because what adult has time for “fun”? but the more i ignored her, the more disconnected i felt.

slowly, i began to listen. i let her guide me in small ways—dancing in the kitchen, walking barefoot on the grass, laughing too loudly at jokes that weren’t even funny. these moments weren’t grand or transformative, but they were honest. they reminded me that life isn’t meant to be a constant sprint toward some undefined finish line.

custody of your inner child isn’t about regressing or avoiding adult responsibilities. it’s about partnership. it’s about recognizing that the part of you that once loved coloring outside the lines still has something to teach you. she reminds you that it’s okay to make mistakes, to rest, to dream without worrying if the dream is realistic.

there’s something deeply rebellious about embracing this. in a culture that glorifies hustle, achievement, and endless optimization, choosing to nurture your inner child feels almost subversive. it’s a way of saying, “i refuse to let the world harden me.”

and the truth is, the world will try. it will tell you to focus on being productive, polished, perfect. but the inner child doesn’t care about those things. she cares about connection. about joy. about the magic that makes life worth living.

so here’s what i’ve learned: she isn’t a relic of the past. she’s the truest part of you, the one who remembers what it means to feel fully alive. taking care of her isn’t just healing—it’s an act of love.

after all, what’s the point of growing up if we lose the wonder that made us want to grow in the first place?

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