When I was younger, I was richer.
I had an abundance of softness. I owned a kind of emotional wealth that didn’t need protecting. Back then, I could fall down, scrape my knees on the pavement, and laugh before the sting even settled in.
I was richer because I could forgive without hesitation. If someone hurt me, I believed it must have been accidental. Surely, they didn’t mean it. Surely, people were good at their core. I didn’t rehearse confrontations in my head or analyze tone in text messages. I didn’t measure apologies to see if they were sufficient. I accepted them like gifts, unwrapped and unquestioned. My heart had no security system. It remained unlocked and wide open.
I was richer because I could cry in front of people.
Tears were not a flaw. They weren’t evidence of instability. They were not something to wipe away quickly. I cried loudly, honestly, without thinking about how it would look. There was no fear of appearing scattered, dramatic, or “too much”. I didn’t know at that time that the world sometimes rewards composure more than honesty. I hadn’t learned to edit my emotions for public comfort. My vulnerability was not a liability; it was simply human.
I was richer because I believed in inevitabilities.
I believed that poor people would eventually become rich. That hard work always paid off. That kindness always returned. That the bullies grew up and apologized. That adults knew what they were doing. The world, in my mind, had a moral balancing system. Things worked out. Justice was certain. I slept at night, oblivious to the fact that I am part of a system that rarely ever rewards the underprivileged.Â
There was wealth in that ignorance.
I was happy being oblivious to wars. I did not understand borders and politics. The news did not sit well with me. I did not carry the weight of headlines in my bloodstream. Suffering existed in that last piece of chocolate. My world was small enough to feel safe and large enough to feel magical. I thought the sky was just for sunsets, not for missiles; And uniforms meant parades, not casualties.
When I was younger, I was rich in hope.
I didn’t overthink my laughter. I didn’t question my worth after mistakes. I didn’t think that friendships could be temporary and kindness could be conditional. I didn’t know that people could hurt you intentionally. I didn’t know that sometimes effort fails, that life is as unpredictable as it can get.Â
Growing up made me aware.
Awareness is expensive. It costs you simplicity. You begin to hesitate before trusting, think twice before crying. You cushion your falls with pride instead of laughter. You forgive, but with footnotes. You care, but with caution.
And yet, somewhere beneath the layers of experience and self-protection, that younger version still exists—the one who laughed while bleeding, who forgave without strategy, who believed in perpetual goodness. Maybe growing up isn’t about losing that richness entirely. Maybe it’s about choosing, deliberately, to keep parts of it alive.
When I was younger, I was richer. Perhaps true maturity is realizing that I don’t have to remain bankrupt. I can relearn that innocence, not through ignorance, but through courage. Because even though the world is not simple, despite everything, I still want to meet it with an open heart.
I won’t call myself rich, but I feel that realising this is a different sort of wealth