Dear Little Me…

Dear little me,

Do you remember?

Do you remember playing in the park, swinging across the monkey bars like you were untouchable?

Do you remember running barefoot through fields with your friends, not thinking about where you were going—just that you were moving?

Do you remember begging to be dropped off at school early, just to have a few extra minutes to play?

Do you remember watching raindrops race down the window, giving them personalities, quietly rooting for one to win?

Do you remember what it felt like to be free?

I wonder what you would think if you could see me now.

Would you recognise the way I live?

Or would you ask me why everything feels so… serious?

I was sitting in the park the other day, and I thought of you.

People passed by in a blur of intention. Runners checking their watches mid-stride, measuring every second. People walking not to walk, but to reach a number. Conversations circling problems—things to fix, things to figure out, things to get through.

No one really seemed to just be there.

And it made me realise how much has changed without me even noticing.

Somewhere along the way, life became something we organise.

Something we optimise.

Something we try to get right.

We wake up already thinking about what needs to be done.

We carry quiet lists in our heads all day.

We measure whether the day was “good” by how much we got through.

Even rest has conditions now—something to earn, something to schedule.

And I keep thinking… you never lived like that.

You didn’t need a reason to enjoy something.

You didn’t turn moments into tasks.

You didn’t measure your day to decide if it mattered.

You just lived it.

I don’t think I noticed when that shifted. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t loud. It was gradual—like slowly replacing something real with something more structured, more acceptable, more… adult.

And maybe some of it is necessary. Life does ask more of us now.

But I also know… we were asked to grow up a little sooner than we were ready for.

To understand things we didn’t fully have the words for yet.

To carry certain feelings quietly.

To move forward without always having the space to just stay soft, stay carefree, stay in that version of you for a little longer.

And maybe that stayed with me more than I realised.

Maybe that’s why I sometimes feel like I’m only just learning how to slow down.

How to enjoy something without thinking about what it needs to lead to.

How to let a moment exist without turning it into something to complete.

Like I’m catching up with a version of life I didn’t fully get to have.

I think if you were here, you’d probably ask me a simple question.

Why are you rushing through it?

And I don’t know if I’d have a good answer.

Because the truth is, I don’t always realise I’m doing it.

I don’t always realise I’ve turned a day into something to complete instead of something to experience.

But I’m starting to notice.

Starting to catch those moments where I’m not really present.

Where I’m thinking ahead instead of being here.

Where I’m treating life like something to manage instead of something to feel.

And maybe that’s where you come in.

Not as someone I need to go back to—

but as someone I’m beginning to understand again.

A quieter voice. A simpler way of seeing things.

You didn’t have everything figured out.

You didn’t need to.

And maybe I don’t either.

I think I’m finding you in small ways.

In moments where I don’t check the time.

Where I let myself stay a little longer than I need to.

Where I do something just because I want to, not because it serves a purpose.

It doesn’t feel natural yet.

But it feels honest.

So I’ve been thinking…

What if not every walk needs a destination?

What if not every day needs to be productive to be worthwhile?

What if nothing is actually waiting for me on the other side of “getting everything done”?

What if this—messy, unfinished, unmeasured—is it?

I don’t have a neat way to wrap that up.

I think I’m still in the middle of it all.

But I do know this—

I’ve started leaving things undone on purpose sometimes.
Letting a moment last a little longer than it needs to.
Not checking how far I’ve gone, or how much I’ve done.

It feels unfamiliar. Slightly uncomfortable, even.

But also… a bit like you.