I believe we each carry a little spark. For some it prevails throughout the everyday, for others it’s hidden; buried deep amongst the scars of being told to just act your age. But that pure happiness, set free when we unlock our inner childhood joy, is an indescribable feeling. Some may find it in Lego, others in skateboarding. Some in cuddly toys, and some in play pretend. It’s wholesome to know our interests and hobbies which we cared so deeply for as children can find their way back to us in adulthood. And in a world that feels so serious, so rigid, and so uniform it can be a great relief to lean into that inner child and embrace it.
With this, I wanted to share a snippet into my personal experiences. Because it’s only recently that I’ve been brave enough to admit, and actually accept, that this whimsy escape will always be part of me.
To begin I feel the need to address the fact I always felt a little behind compared to my peers. In terms of hobbies, interests and development, I was often described as a late bloomer. Whilst I was ‘school smart’, mature for my age, and independent enough to live on my own in a new city; I was pretty naïve to adult themes and innuendos, would watch animated shows targeted well below my age, and, when others would be drinking in a club on a weekend, I’d be found rearranging my collection of teddies, dolls and figurines.
It was when I was 19 that I sought to find likeminded people, and began my Instagram blog journey. I was able to connect, make friends, and share my interests without the fear of judgement. I found my confidence, became more knowledgeable on pretty niche merchandising, delved deeper into the arcs of comfort characters, and kept that spark of mine alive. The feeling of this was freeing. Until it wasn’t. Because it was only in the virtual world where I could be my unapologetic self. When I was travelling the real one, I kept it hidden. When colleagues and peers asked for my Instagram, I simply told them I didn’t have one. Even from family, I’d hide my collection and my childish ways.
Then, someone I once knew found my account. And followed it. (Don’t get me wrong, I know they did so with no malicious intent, but-) the very thought that someone in real life could know this secret was enough for me to run. I deleted the account. For many years I toyed with the idea of restarting – and at some points I did – but not long after the cycle would continue, and I’d simply run away again.
The years went by, ashamed that I had a passion for things designed for… well, children; it was only behind the closed doors that I could appreciate them. But those teddies, collectable dolls, animated movies and children’s literature were a huge chunk of my spark. They were my constant and comfort when life felt too much. When worries set in, burnouts returned, dark thoughts seeped in, it was this spark which I knew I could rely on.
And so, I did. They became an important part of my story, my healing process, and, eventually, my every day. What came next was the realisation, followed by the acceptance; for that little childish side of me was perhaps destined to stay.
All of this to say; build that steam train model, buy a new plush friend, paint your living room wall bright green if you so wish. Life is short enough without living the truest form of ourselves.
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