At twenty-five, I see 11:11 on my phone and keep scrolling. No pause. No wish. No tiny thrill in my chest. Just four numbers meaning it’s almost lunch.
That’s when I knew something died inside me.
As a child, 11:11 felt like the universe tapping my shoulder. Make a wish, quick, before the minute passes. I’d squeeze my eyes shut—better grades, new bicycle, crush liking me back. The wish felt powerful, real, like I’d sent a message directly to whatever force controlled things.
I believed in all of it. Shooting stars. Birthday candles. Eyelashes on my cheek. Wishbones. Each one a hotline to cosmic fulfillment. The universe cared about me personally, listened to my desires, arranged circumstances in my favor.
Then reality accumulated. Wishes didn’t come true. Or they did, but because I worked for them, not because I wished at the right timestamp. The bicycle came from saved allowance. The crush liked someone else. Good grades required studying, not cosmic intervention.
Psychology explains magical thinking as pattern recognition gone wrong. Our brains evolved to see connections everywhere—useful when a rustling bush might hide a predator. In the modern world, this tendency creates superstitions. We see meaning in randomness, intention in coincidence, personal messages in universal patterns.
Science replaced magic gradually. Understanding probability showed me why wishing doesn’t work. Learning about causation revealed the actual mechanisms behind outcomes. Physics operates the universe, not my preferences. Time became chronology, not destiny. 11:11 became 11:11—just another minute.
But here’s what I lost: pure, unlimited hope.
Children wish with total openness. Anything feels possible. The future stretches infinite, unbound by probability or precedent. Magical thinking carries defiance against limitations. When you wish at 11:11, you’re saying the universe can bend for you.
Adults trade magic for strategy. Instead of wishing for promotions, we network. Instead of hoping for love, we work on ourselves. We plan, calculate, optimize. Actions replace prayers. It’s effective. It’s rational. It’s also exhausting.
Growing up means accepting constraints. Children believe anything possible. Adults know the boundaries—economic realities, social structures, biological limits, time running out. Stopping wishes signals surrender to inevitability. We become realistic, which is another word for defeated.
Something else shifted. Childhood wishes were simple, selfish—toys, popularity, avoiding homework. Adult desires grew complex and impossible to capture in one breath. Meaningful work that pays bills. Authentic relationships without losing independence. Making impact without burning out. These don’t fit into 11:11 wish format. Maybe we stopped wishing because our wants evolved beyond simple formulation.
The digital age killed magic faster. Mystery needs space to breathe. Now everything gets explained instantly. Google answers what oracles once provided. GPS replaces intuition. Algorithms predict our behavior better than we can. When transparency dominates, enchantment dies. You can’t feel cosmic significance when you understand the mechanical cause of everything.
Some nights I miss it. Miss believing the universe had personal interest in my happiness. Miss that electric feeling when the clock showed 11:11, like catching a secret door opening. Miss the innocence of thinking wishes mattered.
I’ve tried forcing it back. Seeing 11:11 and deliberately pausing, making a wish like I’m following a recipe. It feels hollow. Like going through motions without faith. You can’t believe by deciding to believe. Magic doesn’t work that way.
Maybe wisdom isn’t about returning to magical thinking. Maybe it’s about transformation. The universe doesn’t grant wishes, but consciousness shapes reality. Not through cosmic intervention, but through focus, intention, persistent action toward what matters.
11:11 could become something different now. Not a moment for hoping, but for noticing. A reminder to check: Am I moving toward what I actually want? Am I taking actions that create the life I wish for? Am I present in this moment or sleepwalking through it?
Magical thinking said the universe would deliver. Mature thinking says I must build it myself. Less enchanted, more empowered. Less wonder, more agency. I’m not sure it’s a fair trade.
But at twenty-five, when 11:11 appears on my screen, I don’t wish anymore. Sometimes I smile sadly, remembering when I did. Remembering when the world felt full of invisible doors that might swing open if I just believed hard enough.
Now I know the doors were never there. Or they were always there, and belief was never the key. Action was. Time was. Luck was. Work was.
The magic didn’t die. It just changed form. Or maybe I’m telling myself that so losing it hurts less.
Either way, 11:11 is just a time now. And I keep scrolling.