You know that distinct smell of popcorn, plastic, and dreams? That was KidZania. The holy land. The promised playground. The mini city where I was not just a kid, I was the kid. The CEO, the firefighter, the doctor, the anchor of my own destiny. I’d march in with my passport, head straight for the KidZos, and find the next oversized uniform to wear — ready to cure plastic patients, make real donuts and Coca Cola, and most importantly, collect real pride. My parents (or school teachers, during picnics) would either chill in the lounge, or shop in the mall on lower floors, while I strutted through the streets like I owned the place. Because honestly, I did. I had a debit card with my name on it. I had a many jobs. I was unstoppable.
KidZania was not just a theme park. It was an ecosystem. A childhood simulation of capitalism, but with better wages. I went at least once or twice a year, religiously, like it was my personal pilgrimage. Every time, I promised myself I’d give time to my professions, and every time, I ended up doing everything. I was always the Jack of all trades, but also the master of them all (in my own little head). I’d clock in, clock out, and leave with sticky fingers, tired feet, and a moral superiority complex that only an eight-year-old surgeon could have.
KidZania was the only place I felt it was okay being everything and nothing, all at once.
And then one day, without ceremony, without trumpets or confetti, I left for the last time. I didn’t know it was my last shift. No one told me that you eventually grow too tall for the uniforms, too self-aware for the role play, too busy for the magic. No one told me that you don’t outgrow childhood; you just slowly stop renewing your passport.
The ritual of growing up disguised as a KidZania picnic.
Going to KidZania was a full-blown ritual. You’d wake up early, put on your most “I’m definitely mature enough to handle a scalpel” outfit (or your school uniform), and head to that wonderland of fluorescent lights and fake fire trucks. There was something sacred about it. It was a rare moment where adults stepped aside and said, “Go on, run the world.” And we did. We took that power and made it deeply unserious. Because obviously, our city was powered by joy, not bureaucracy.
Every visit felt like a new life. I’d plan out my career path like a mini LinkedIn warrior. Be a pilot, then a dentist, maybe squeeze in a journalist gig before lunch. By the time I’d clocked my tenth job, I was convinced I was ready to pay taxes. I even had my savings plan: saving KidZos for that one glittery make-up model job that screamed fiscal responsibility.
It wasn’t just about the jobs, though. It was the feeling of walking into a place where everything was made for you. The doors your height, the counters within reach, the world waiting to be played with. You didn’t need to prove your worth; you just showed up, and someone handed you a uniform. No interviews, no CVs, just pure faith that you’d be an excellent dentist. That’s the kind of confidence adult me is still chasing.
The day I didn’t know was the last.
The last time I went to KidZania, I didn’t know I was saying goodbye. I didn’t stand at the entrance thinking, “Ah yes, this will be the last time I yell ‘FIRE!’ with unearned authority.” No. I just did it. Like every other time. I ran around, laughed till I wheezed, probably got into a petty argument with another eight-year-old about queue positions, and left thinking I’d be back next month. But I never was.
That’s the thing about growing up. There’s no alarm bell. No confetti cannon announcing that your childhood is expiring. One day, you’re making Dairy Milk with reckless joy, and the next, you’re standing in a real queue at the bank with real money and trust issues. There’s no “last visit” warning label. It just happens. You look up one day, and the kid-sized city feels smaller, not because it changed, but because you did.
If I had known it was my last time, I would have done everything differently. I would have tried every job, bought that overpriced souvenir, taken a hundred pictures, hugged the giant mascots like they were family. But childhood never tells you when to pack up your things. It just quietly closes the gates and leaves you outside, staring at the neon sign like an ex’s Instagram story.
When you realise every goodbye is silent.
It’s not just KidZania. Growing up is a series of last times you don’t notice. The last time you wore matching pyjamas with your mom. The last time you ran to show your parents a doodle you made. The last time you ordered a Happy Meal unironically. The world keeps moving, and you just keep growing taller until one day, the doorways shrink behind you.
I think that’s what hurts the most; the quietness of it all. There’s no graduation ceremony for innocence. You just start choosing productivity over play, practicality over pretend, and caffeine over curiosity. The pretend jobs turn into real ones, and suddenly you’re doing everything you once “played” at, only now the stakes are terrifyingly real.
KidZania was a safe rehearsal. Life, but with cheat codes. You could be anyone for twenty minutes and still make it home in time for cartoons. And now, as adults, we spend years trying to recreate that feeling. We chase hobbies, side hustles, little bursts of freedom; basically mini KidZanias of our own making.
Clutching my last few KidZos.
If I could go back, I’d tell little me to slow down. To take one last look at the fake skyline and realise how real it felt. I’d tell her that one day, she’ll actually be working, actually earning, actually tired… and she’ll wish for this. For the fake jobs, the tiny uniforms, the simplicity of pretending.
But maybe the point isn’t to go back. Maybe it’s to remember. To carry a bit of that joy, that wild imagination, that audacity to try everything, into the adult world. To build cities of our own: messy, chaotic, but real. To keep a few KidZos tucked in the back pocket of our minds as proof that we once believed in wonder.
I didn’t know it was my last time at KidZania, but I think that’s how all goodbyes work. You don’t notice when the curtain falls; you just keep living until you look back and realise the show ended long ago. And yet, in some strange way, you’re still there — standing in that tiny city, eyes bright, heart loud, ready to clock in one more time.
Want more essays that smell like old school uniforms, lost crayons, and emotional time travel? Come home to Her Campus at MUJ, where we write about everything like it’s a breakup we never got closure from. And if you want more from Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ, I’m still the last kid standing in the city of make-believe.