This afternoon my mom texted me about painting my childhood room. She asked if I wanted them to keep the two cork boards which have a myriad of childhood drawings and memories of my youth.
She texted me a photo. As I looked it over I racked my brain over if I could let go of posting these items: a magazine cover featuring Destiny’s Child, a mini packet of music notes for a simple melody I composed when I was 8, the drawing I made of ponies coming down a rainbow, the previous year.
Why is it so hard to let go of these memorabilia from my youth?
Why do I love looking at photos of when I was a baby and young girl, when I have my very own child now?
Having a child made me realize even more how truly magical and special childhood is—a period of growth, expansion, hope, and beauty.
It’s weird looking at those young photos of myself since I do not remember being that person—but I revel in how happy, creative, and adorable she was.
And it gives me a pit in my stomach when I ponder how that period of life, that beautiful little girl of wonder, is no longer here. She’s inside of me, but it’s not the same. What an adorable little girl. Oh, how transient this magical period of life is!
Mindful Nuggets 