the child i never outgrew

i didn’t realize how much of my childhood i still carry with me.
 how i still feel a jolt of excitement over things like the factory-fresh scent of brand new Pokémon cards, or the sound of Legos clicking into place against the floor. 
how certain memories keep resurfacing because i enjoyed them so much.
 how that child-version of me never left, just learned how to stand quietly in the back of my mind and speak up when it recognizes itself.

there’s a certain innocence that comes with finding an old toy—tattooed with dust, plastic faded in a way time cannot apologize for—almost like it’s the key to a door you didn’t know you’d locked.
 or maintaining a habit you couldn’t break as a kid, like turning your leg into a trampoline when you’re anxious, like it’s preparing for an event no one signed it up for.
 or needing the whirr of a fan and the chirr of crickets, that low, stitched-together noise that whispers to your nervous system it’s safe to go to sleep.

there’s a certain tenderness that comes with comforting yourself now with the same things that comforted you as a kid.
 like watching a movie where you know everything that happens next and still enjoying every moment.
 or wanting someone to hold you and tell you everything will be okay, even when everything feels anything but okay.

those comforts aren’t new.


they’re refinements of old ones,
 

safer versions of what once made us feel okay.

after reveling in the nostalgia of those moments, restlessness grows, and i find myself asking many questions—most of them without many answers.

why does this memory still matter?
 does it matter because i never said goodbye, or because it is meant to stay with me for the rest of my life?

why did this survive when so much didn’t? 
does it still need to teach me something, or is it just asking to be remembered?

what part of me is still reaching for this feeling?
 is it the younger version of me asking me to be forgotten, or is it the part of me that remembers who i am when i forget myself?

although these questions may spend the rest of their lives sitting on a shelf, attracting dust beside other unanswered thoughts, i do find solace in this answer:
 maybe some things aren’t meant to be outgrown.
 maybe some things are meant to be carried with us at every stage of our lives.

maybe innocence is more about reappearance than disappearance, like a porch light flicking on at dusk.
it doesn’t fix the dark.
it just makes it kinder.

maybe nostalgia is the eternal rope we tie around our waist, keeping us connected to who we are in case we wander too far.

nostalgia isn’t something to be ashamed of. 
it isn’t regression. 
it isn’t concession.
 it is protection, something baked into us when we look for comfort amidst the flames of grief, deadlines, and quiet nights that stretch too long.

nostalgia is something worth holding onto and cherishing for as long as we can.
 it helps us take a breath and appreciate the simple things in life, like the sound of closing elevator doors silencing a noisy floor.

we may never be able to let go of the things that have intrigued us our whole lives. 
but maybe, just maybe, that’s one of the secrets to life:


to hold on to the things that reveal our inner children,
 so we never forget the sound of ourselves before the world taught us how loud to be.