Childhood Healing

There is something almost magical about balloons, teddies, and toys—the way they bring a sense of wonder, warmth, and nostalgia that reaches deep into the corners of my soul. It is unreal how much I love them, how drawn I am to the simplicity of their existence, how they make my heart feel lighter in a way I never quite understood before. But now, as I reflect, I think I do. I think it heals something in me, something small and quiet yet profound—a childhood that was never truly playful.

I wasn’t the kind of child who ran around with dolls or stuffed animals, who collected toy cars or built castles out of colorful blocks. My childhood was different, more restrained, more serious. I don’t know if it was the environment I was raised in, or just the way life unfolded for me, but playfulness was not a luxury I indulged in. I was the observant child, the one who watched others laugh freely but never quite felt the same ease. I was the one who grew up quickly, who understood responsibility far too soon, who learned to carry burdens that were not meant for such small shoulders.

But now, as an adult, I find myself gravitating toward these symbols of innocence and joy. A balloon in my hands feels like an escape, a tether to a world that once felt out of reach. Its weightlessness is symbolic—reminding me that not everything has to be heavy, that I too can be light, that joy can be something I hold onto rather than something I watch from a distance. I love the way balloons float, how they seem unbothered by the worries of the world, how they dance with the wind, how they embrace movement without fear. Maybe that’s why I love them so much. Because I want to be like that—unburdened, untethered, free.

Teddy bears hold a different kind of comfort. They are soft, warm, safe. They don’t ask for anything, they don’t expect anything. They are just there, waiting to be held, waiting to give comfort in the simplest way possible. And maybe that’s what I lacked as a child—the assurance that comfort didn’t have to be earned, that softness didn’t have to be hidden, that love could be unconditional. When I hug a teddy now, it is not just fabric and stuffing in my arms—it is a second chance, a way to reclaim something that was lost. It is the embrace I never knew I needed, the warmth I never let myself sink into.

And toys, oh, the joy they bring. I walk into a toy store now and feel like I am stepping into a world that was meant for me all along, a world I just never allowed myself to enter. I touch the tiny figurines, the dolls with their painted-on smiles, the puzzles waiting to be solved, and I feel a surge of happiness, of belonging. I pick up things I don’t necessarily need, but things that make me smile. Maybe it’s making up for lost time. Maybe it’s giving myself permission to experience joy in ways I couldn’t before. Maybe it’s healing in the form of small, colorful objects that remind me life doesn’t always have to be so serious.

Some people might think it’s childish. Some might not understand why an adult would find solace in things meant for children. But I do. I understand it in a way that only someone who has lived without it can. Because when you grow up without playfulness, without softness, without the freedom to just be a child, you realize something—being an adult means you finally have the power to give yourself what was missing. And so, I do. I let myself love balloons and teddies and toys. I let myself find joy in things that others outgrew long ago. I let myself reclaim what should have been mine all along.

And in doing so, I am healing. Slowly, gently, without force. I am filling in the empty spaces with colors, with softness, with laughter. I am rewriting the past, not by erasing it, but by adding to it—by giving my inner child the joy she was once denied. And that, to me, is the most beautiful kind of healing there is.