I am learning how to stay young — not in years, but in spirit — and I am coming to understand the quiet ferocity of that task. As I stand at the threshold of 21, somewhere between the soft dissolving light of adolescence and the sharper contours of adulthood, Costa Rica is offering me lessons I did not know I hungered for. Here, beneath endless skies and amid the wild untamed beauty, I am realizing that to stay curious, open-hearted, and ravenous for experience might just be the meaning of life. It is not about having the answers — it is about asking better questions. It is about wonder, joy, and the courage to keep discovering, even when the world is vast and unknowable.
Curiosity is the pulse that keeps us alive. Psychologists say a curious mind remains elastic and resilient, and science affirms that lifelong learning keeps our brains young. But children know this without needing studies — they ask, explore, and fling themselves headlong into the unknown with a grace adults often forget. Somewhere along the way, we start bartering curiosity for certainty, wonder for caution. But here, where mornings unfurl slowly like silk and the calls of howler monkeys rise ancient and wild, I am learning to soften back into the unknown. I am learning to let the questions lead me forward, even when their answers remain distant and unclear.
Loving the world — fully and without caution — is part of this staying young. The more we offer ourselves up to wonder and connection, the richer and more vivid life becomes. In Costa Rica, where the phrase “pura vida” is not just a saying, but a rhythm, love takes on a different hue. It is in the sweetness of mangoes dripping down my wrists, in the unbridled laughter that splits the night wide open, in the rush of rivers that sound like a heartbeat. This love, of life, of people, of quick moments, renders everything incandescent. Studies may show that gratitude and awe enhance well-being, but I did not need science to tell me that. I only needed to watch the sun rise slowly over the jungle and feel my heart swell with something too large and too luminous to name.
Experience is the most relentless of teachers, and staying young means diving into life without hesitating at the edge. Children do not weigh the risk — they climb higher, run faster, feel harder. But, as we grow older, we become careful. We measure and mitigate, fear failure more than stagnation. Here, I am learning to let go of that caution. I swim in rivers without knowing their depths. I run until my lungs burn and dance until my knees give out. I let life leave its marks on me — bruises, laughter lines, the ache of wanting. Psychologists call this “experiential learning,” but I think it’s bravery: the willingness to be changed.
What if youth is also the willingness to break? To shatter and splinter and remake yourself as many times as it takes? There is a violence to transformation, a cost to curiosity, and I am learning this, too. The world is beautiful, but it is also sharp-edged. You cannot dive headlong into wonder without the risk of drowning. You cannot love without the certainty of loss. And yet, what is the alternative? A life wrapped in caution tape, untouched and untouching? I choose the breaking. I choose the fire.
Perhaps wonder and heartbreak are twins — perhaps staying young means keeping your heart wide open, even when the world pours salt into it. I stand barefoot on the edge of the Pacific, and the waves crash like they are trying to teach me something I cannot yet comprehend. Every sunrise feels like both a beginning and an ending. Every touch carries the weight of impermanence. Maybe that is what makes it all so radiant — the knowing that it will not last. I think we begin to grow old the moment we stop being willing to lose.
The world is always speaking, if only we listen. Every new experience carries a lesson, every encounter whispers some truth. The wind moving through palm trees teaches patience; the sudden, electric burst of a thunderstorm teaches surrender. I am learning that to exist is to experience, and to experience is to learn. The world is not gentle with its lessons, but it is generous. In every scar, there is wisdom; in every ache, a kind of knowing. Perhaps the meaning of life is simply to stay open enough to receive these lessons, to let the world shape us without resistance.
To exist fully is to be both student and canvas — to let life’s brushstrokes paint you with color and shadow alike. The river teaches flow, the mountains teach stillness. The laughter of strangers reminds me of the sweetness of connection, and the quiet of solitude teaches me the strength in my own company. Every step forward leaves a print on my spirit, and I am learning to cherish even the footprints that lead me through darkness. For even there, there is growth.
To stay young is to stay hungry — not for answers, but for the rawness of being alive. It is to keep your hands outstretched, palms up, even when there is nothing to catch. It is to let the world shape you, sculpt you, wear you down like the tide wears down stone. And maybe, one day, you will find your edges softened into something beautiful — something that only breaking and remaking could create.
As I approach 21, I am starting to understand that staying young is not about resisting age — it is about embracing life with the fierce tenderness of someone who knows it will slip through their fingers. It is about staying curious when the world tells you to settle. It is about loving ferociously, even when you know you might be hurt. It is about choosing experience over caution, wandering over certainty, every single time. And maybe the meaning of life is not something you find — it is something you live.
So, I am out with lanterns, not just looking for myself, but for the girl I used to be — the one who believed anything was possible. I am finding that she was right all along. The world is terrifying and brilliant and full of questions I will never answer, but I am learning to live by asking. And I think that is kind of beautiful.Â