Want a Happier Life? Try Listening to Your Inner Child

0 0

There’s a strange little voice in my head that told me to buy bubble gum the other day. Not just any bubble gum, mind you—those massive pink slabs that come in shiny foil and taste like sugar and regret. I hadn’t touched one in years. I was at the till, trying to act like an adult who understands compound interest, and there it was, wedged between a packet of firelighters and an oddly placed copy of People magazine: my childhood. It whispered, “Go on. Just one.” So I did. I chewed it like I was seven again, trying to blow a bubble bigger than my own head, and nearly choked when it popped and smacked me in the eye. And you know what? I laughed. Out loud. In public. People looked. I didn’t care. That, right there, was the first time in ages I let my inner child take the wheel.

I think we forget we even have one. We become so obsessed with bills and deadlines and how to reply to a WhatsApp without sounding too passive-aggressive that we lose the part of ourselves that once believed a stick could be a sword or that the floor was lava. The older we get, the more we push that little voice down. It gets muffled under tax forms and polite emails and microwave meals. But it’s still there. Waiting. Slightly sticky, probably covered in glitter, and ready to suggest jumping on the bed for no reason at all.

Listening to your inner child doesn’t mean quitting your job and running off to build sandcastles professionally. It can be small. Silly. Subtle. It means saying yes to licking the spoon. It means buying a box of crayons for yourself because your brain’s tired and adult colouring books are just expensive lies. It means dancing badly in the kitchen when your favourite 90s song comes on—even if it’s the same three moves on loop.

When you actually pay attention to that younger version of you, weird things happen. Good weird. Like suddenly you realise you’ve been eating spaghetti all wrong, because the correct way is with a fork and your face. Or you remember how exciting it used to be to get a letter in the post, so you write one to someone else. Not because you’re trying to be romantic or vintage—just because it’s fun. I did that recently. I sent a postcard to a friend who lives ten minutes away. She thought it was absurd and absolutely loved it.

That’s what this whole thing is really about. Letting yourself be a little absurd again. Letting go of the idea that everything needs to have a purpose or a five-step plan. Your inner child doesn’t care about productivity. It wants to build a fort with couch cushions and snack in it like royalty. It wants to watch cartoons while wearing odd socks and laugh until you snort. And if you give it half a chance, it’ll remind you how much joy you used to find in the tiniest things.

I once spent forty-five minutes walking on the edge of the pavement like it was a tightrope, just to see if I could make it all the way to the corner shop without falling off. I passed two joggers and an old man with a Jack Russell. Not one person looked twice. And if they did, they didn’t stop me. That’s the thing—they don’t actually care. We’re so worried about being seen as weird or immature or too much that we rob ourselves of the stuff that makes life feel less like a spreadsheet.

That inner child? They’re the best part of you. They don’t care if you’re broke or have cellulite or haven’t vacuumed since December. They just want you to be excited about things again. To clap when the toast pops. To squeal when you see a puppy. To say “wow” at fireworks, even though you’ve seen them a thousand times before. There’s a kind of magic in that. And magic doesn’t always look like wizard hats and fairy lights. Sometimes it’s just remembering that pudding can absolutely come before dinner and that talking to your plants is a perfectly acceptable hobby.

Honestly, the inner child might be onto something. They’re the part of you that doesn’t flinch when trying something new. Who says, “Let’s do it!” before fear has time to object. They don’t care if you’re good at it or not—they just want to try. I took a hula hoop class once. I was awful. I nearly broke a lamp. But I couldn’t stop laughing. That’s the stuff your inner child lives for. Not perfection. Not applause. Just pure, chaotic joy. The kind that fills your chest and makes your face hurt from smiling.

And look, I get it—life is hard. There are bills and petrol prices and Eskom stage-whatever to deal with. But that doesn’t mean you can’t let a little light in. You can still handle your grown-up business while wearing a superhero cape on laundry day. You can still pay your taxes and have a bubble bath with a rubber duck. You’re allowed. I think we all need reminding that being silly isn’t a weakness. It’s a survival tactic. It’s what keeps you soft in a world that’s constantly trying to make you hard. It keeps you hopeful. Keeps you curious. Keeps you human. And honestly, it’s cheaper than therapy.

My inner child has this habit of appearing when I least expect it. Like when I’m grumpy and stomping around the flat because my favourite mug is missing, and suddenly I find it being used by one of my plants. Apparently, past-me thought it made a great pot. I laughed for five solid minutes. That was my inner child, being quietly chaotic. Sometimes it’s less charming. Like when I see bubbles and absolutely must pop them, even if I’m on a Zoom call. Or when I instinctively splash in a puddle and realise I’m wearing suede shoes. Still worth it.

Listening to that voice doesn’t mean you’ve lost the plot. It means you’ve remembered the best parts of yourself. The parts that were excited by life, not exhausted by it. The parts that danced to jingles and made up their own jokes and thought every animal had a secret name. That’s still you. Just with more bills. It’s easy to think you’ve grown out of that person. But the truth is, you’ve just grown around them. They’re still there. Probably waiting with a makeshift cape and a questionable science experiment involving jelly and Mentos. And if you sit still for long enough—maybe while blowing bubbles or drawing a dinosaur with crayons—you’ll hear them again. A little giggle. A nudge. A cheeky suggestion to eat cereal out of a mixing bowl because why not. And when you do, I hope you listen. I hope you say yes. Because the world doesn’t need more serious people. It needs more joy. More weirdness. More people willing to wear glitter for no reason and sing loudly in the car and build dens out of bed sheets just because they can. Let the little version of you out to play. You’ll both be better for it.