What Kids Know (That We Forgot)
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: kids are just too cool. They know what matters in life. They live in the moment like it’s their full-time job. They belly-laugh. They get so excited they practically vibrate. And if we’re paying attention—really paying attention—they can reteach us what adulthood politely sanded off.
There’s something magical about watching a child in their element. Not the distracted glance while you half-scroll your phone. I mean witnessing that exact second when curiosity clamps on to something shiny and click—you can almost hear the gears start to whirr. Eyes brighten to laser-beam levels. The world shrinks to the size of a ladybug or a puddle or a pile of blocks. Total immersion. Zero self-consciousness. Fully alive.
And the enthusiasm! Some kids bubble like a soup pot that’s just a bit too full—vegetables surfing the waves, broth daring to breach the edge. Others fizz like a glass of champagne—sparkly, light, irresistible. Either way, it’s contagious. Being near it reminds you that life can be fun—and maybe should be, more often than we let it be.
Then comes the kicker. Most of us were told, directly or indirectly, not to be like that.
Sit down. Be quiet. Stop fidgeting. Use your inside voice. Don’t be silly. Do your homework. Be serious. Stop daydreaming. (Translation: stop being a kid.)
We got the message: work matters more than play. Goals matter more than giggles. Winning is everything. Mistakes are bad. Dreams are unrealistic. And then we wonder why, thirty or forty years later, we’re over-scheduled, over-tired, and peering into the mirror asking, “Where did my sparkle go?”
Kids still have the sparkle. Especially the younger ones who haven’t been fully trained out of it yet. They remember what we misplaced: joy doesn’t require permission. Curiosity doesn’t need an outcome. Play isn’t a reward—it’s a way of being.
And they know something else, too: connection beats competition. Watch a group of children tackle something tricky. Sure, there’s the occasional “Mine!” moment, but far more often you’ll see helper hands, delighted squeals when someone else figures it out, and impromptu parades to celebrate a tower that didn’t fall. When a child’s proud of a drawing, the other kids crowd around and beam like they personally invented crayons. It’s not your win vs. my win; it’s our win. They intuitively get that cheering for someone else doesn’t subtract joy from you—it multiplies it.
Adults, on the other hand, get… clever. We learn to hoard credit, to measure our worth with titles, numbers, and very serious spreadsheets. We confuse caution with wisdom and cynicism with intelligence. We speak the language of “networking” when we mean “using,” and we wear exhaustion like a status symbol. Somewhere along the way, play gets rebranded as “a guilty pleasure,” and we start treating joy like it’s a dessert you have to earn.
Kids would like a word.
They would tell us: the point isn’t the prize—it’s the experience. It’s learning something new. It’s making a friend. It’s having an adventure. It’s being proud you tried. It’s shouting “LOOK WHAT I MADE!” and not apologising for taking up space. It’s seeing someone else make something amazing and yelling “THAT’S SO COOL!” without feeling smaller.
They would also tell us that losing doesn’t make you a loser. You can come in last and still glow, because the glow is about growth. They’d hand us a juice box and say, “Try again tomorrow.”
Imagine if more adults moved through the world like that. A little less performance. A little more presence. A little less calculating. A little more celebrating. Choosing people because we like them, not because we can leverage them. Helping someone even when there’s “nothing in it” for us. Laughing more. Hugging more. Playing more.
Before you roll your eyes and say, “That’s cute, but I have bills,” please know: I have not lost my grip on reality. I’m not advocating for quitting your job to build blanket forts professionally (although if that’s a thing, do send details). I’m saying that our way of being while we do life can be softer, brighter, and far more human than the grind told us it had to be.
So how do we reclaim what kids know without pretending we don’t have responsibilities? We start small. We practice. We make joy less of an afterthought and more of a daily vitamin.
Here are some micro-moves that bring the sparkle back:
Celebrate out loud. When someone you know shares good news, react like a kid: clap, cheer, text confetti. Make it normal to be thrilled for others without inserting a comparison graph.
Schedule play like a meeting. Pencil in 20 minutes for something frivolous you loved as a kid: doodling, jumping in leaves, dancing in your kitchen, tossing a ball for the dog and actually playing, not just scrolling between throws.
Ask delightful questions. Kids don’t ask, “What do you do?” They ask, “What’s your favourite dinosaur?” Borrow that energy. Try, “What’s lighting you up this week?” or “What did you love doing when you were eight?”
Treat mistakes like experiments. When something flops, resist the adult urge to hold a tribunal. Shrug, laugh, ask what you learned, and try again. (Bonus points for snacks.)
Share the crayons. If you have knowledge or contacts, offer them freely. Introduce people. Lend a book. Forward the resource. Helping isn’t a transaction. It’s community glue.
Move your body like a kid. Ten seconds of silly movement resets your brain. Wiggle. Stretch. Balance on one foot while the kettle boils. You’re allowed to be a bit ridiculous.
Name one wonder per day. Kids gasp at worms and airplanes and how shadows work. You can do that too. Say it out loud: “That sky looks like a painting.” Your brain will start hunting for more.
And here’s a big one: let yourself be seen, imperfectly. Children don’t wait to be experts before they share. They show you the wobbly tower while it’s still wobbly. Adults tend to hide until it’s “flawless,” by which time we’re exhausted and a little dead inside. Show your drafts. Invite people into the messy middle. That’s where connection lives.
If you’re thinking, “Okay, but I feel silly,” great news: silliness is the gateway drug to joy. It’s also how your nervous system learns you’re safe to be you without performance metrics. The first few times may feel awkward. Keep going. Awkward is just the crust you crack through to reach ease.
And if part of you worries that softening means losing your edge—nope. Joy doesn’t blunt excellence; it fuels it. When you approach work and relationships with curiosity, play, and generosity, you actually become braver. You’re more willing to try, to risk, to iterate. You bounce back faster because failure isn’t a verdict—it’s a data point. Kids are resilient not because life is easier for them, but because they haven’t learned to make struggle their identity.
Underneath all the seriousness and spreadsheets, your inner eight-year-old is still in there: grass-stained, bright-eyed, and ready to invite everyone into a game you just invented. She wants you to remember that you’re allowed to be delighted. You’re allowed to clap for others without dimming your own light. You’re allowed to play, even on Tuesdays.
So maybe we take our cues from the small humans for a while. Let’s practice winning without gloating, losing without collapsing, and helping without keeping score. Let’s choose people who make us laugh, not just people who make us look good on paper. Let’s cheer loudly. Let’s share snacks. Let’s build something together and then point at it with goofy pride.
Because joy isn’t a limited resource. It multiplies when we pass it around.
And if anyone raises an eyebrow at your reclaimed sparkle, you can smile and say, “I’m just learning from the experts.” Then run, don’t walk, toward the nearest patch of sunshine and let yourself glow.