We've Confused Being Mature With Being Boring.

Camille Stockwell
1 day ago
4 min read

I met her one time in my parents' backyard in New Hampshire. She was wearing a summer nightgown with little pale pink flowers decorated like polka dots. She looked at me — so happy, but nervous. She wanted to walk toward me but was too afraid, so I went to her. I held her little hands in mine, knelt to meet her blue eyes, and embraced her. I hugged her the way she always wanted to be hugged.

We laughed. We rolled around in the plush, freshly cut green grass. We ate chocolate-covered frozen bananas on the splintered wood porch and stayed outside all day, waiting for the sun to set so we could gaze at the stars.

The next morning, I woke up to her tugging at my pyjamas, smiling, jumping up and down for our future.

And I started thinking — when did we get to a certain age and suddenly decide it wasn't okay to do any of this anymore? To make a mud cake, to get messy, to play with a pinwheel, to just laugh with each other and sit with each other without needing to be consuming something or doing something productive? When I hit 21, I was like — I can't do this anymore. Says who? I thought it was embarrassing to go on a roller coaster ride, but I love roller coasters. So all I know is next time I see one, I'm hopping on that thing.

I think so many people stop doing what they love — especially things they loved as kids — because judgment shows up more as you get older. People who don't fully understand, or who have their own limiting beliefs, try to put those onto others. They might see someone their age doing something they love — knitting in the park, making a mud cake — and they'll judge them, point at them. But it's not even that they think it's wrong. They just don't understand. And it's not for them to understand.

We stopped doing what we love because we're so hyper-fixated on doing the right thing. On what we think we should be doing, rather than what actually brings us joy. All I know is when I'm running around in a field of grass in New Hampshire doing nothing, or crushing up little seashells to make my own highlighter and eyeshadow from mussel shells — that brings me the most joy. I'm present. I'm attentive. I know it doesn't need to be perfect because it never has been and never will be, and that's the best thing. I'm just doing what I like to do.

There doesn't have to be a final product. Everyone is so focused on a final vision, something that's done, but nothing has to be done. It's done when you decide it's enough, just as it is.

Seriously, people are so robotic these days — it's a little creepy. On their phones at dinner, they’re checked out, going through the motions. I've seen a little wave of people bringing cards to bars, finally, or getting more into pool, and I love that. But for a while, those pool tables just sat there collecting dust, and it felt weird to play, especially if you were bad. I'm not good at pool. I will still be there trying to hit that white ball into a basket — I don't even fully know what I'm talking about — but it's fun. I'm doing what I love. That's the whole thing.

It was hard to have fun when I had no self-esteem, though. I was so fixated on what other people were going to think. And when your friends say I don't want to do that — ask them why. Why don't you want to pick flowers? Why don't you want to roll down a hill? It's because they have limiting beliefs about what they should and shouldn't do at a certain age. They know it's fun. They probably love it. They just won't let themselves.

I really don't love quoting the Mel Robbins "Let Them" theory because I think it's a little corny — but it's real. I've started letting people think what they want to think about me, because I don't let it affect who I am. I'm not getting my self-esteem from others anymore. It comes from me. So does peace. So does regulating your nervous system. I have this glow over me and a shield inside of me, and I keep reminding myself of that every day. That's what allows me to do more of what I love — because I don't need other people telling me what's right, what's wrong, what's weird, what's cool. Maybe that's true for them. For me, it's different.

The next day, she wanted to frolic around, so we did. We dyed our whites with boiled beet juice and made a mess in a perfectly clean kitchen. She wanted ice cream, so we got ice cream. After she finished her coconut chocolate swirl, she wanted another — and I understood that want, I really did. But I'm learning to find the balance between her needs and mine. Between following every impulse and knowing when enough is its own kind of sweetness.

That's what doing more of what you love actually looks like. Not perfection. Not a final product. Just a little girl in a pink flowery nightgown, tugging at your pyjamas in the morning, excited for what comes next.