There’s a photo somewhere in your house. Maybe in an album, maybe in a box in the closet. Kindergarten, sometime in the 1990s. You’re in the front row with a gap-toothed smile, wearing clothes that don’t quite match, one hand raised like you’re about to say something earth-shattering.

You probably were. At five years old, every thought felt earth-shattering.

I remember asking my teacher why the sky was blue but water was clear if they were both made of the same stuff. She didn’t know. I didn’t mind. I had twenty more questions waiting. Why do birds know where to go? Why can’t we remember being babies? Why does my shadow follow me but never talk back?

Back then, I drew houses with purple smoke coming from chimneys because regular smoke seemed boring. I announced at show-and-tell that I’d grow up to be a dinosaur scientist who sang songs about space. Everyone clapped. I took a bow. It never occurred to me that this plan might be unusual or impossible or worth second-guessing.

Now I catch myself saying things like “I might be wrong, but…” or “This is probably stupid, but…” or “I don’t know if this makes sense, but…” Before every opinion, every idea, every small moment of enthusiasm, there’s a disclaimer. An apology for taking up space.

When did I learn to do that?

My neighbor has a five-year-old daughter. Last week I watched her draw with sidewalk chalk. Purple elephants flying through rainbow clouds. When she finished, she stood back with her hands on her hips, looking at her work the way Michelangelo probably looked at the Sistine Chapel. Pure satisfaction. No doubt. No voice in her head asking if the elephants should be more realistic or if anyone would like it or if she was wasting her time.

I used to have that certainty. About everything. I knew which crayon made the perfect sunset. I knew the best hiding spot in hide-and-seek. I knew what I wanted for lunch, for my birthday, for my entire life. I knew it the way you know your own name.

Somewhere between kindergarten and my first real job, I learned that certainty was dangerous. That confidence looked like arrogance. That imagination was for children but adults needed to be realistic. Practical. Sensible.

So I turned down the volume on everything. Every wild idea, every burst of joy, every moment of pure excitement. I learned to wrap dreams in disclaimers. To preface creativity with apologies. To make myself smaller so others would feel more comfortable.

The worst part isn’t just losing that fearless curiosity. It’s that I convinced myself it was childish. That growing up meant growing smaller. That maturity meant trading wonder for worry, possibility for probability, questions for quiet.

But sometimes, late at night when I can’t sleep, I remember what it felt like to believe I could be anything. To know, absolutely know, that my ideas mattered. To create something just because it made me happy, not because it would impress anyone or lead anywhere or make sense to anyone else.

That kindergarten version of me wasn’t naive. She was wise in a way I’ve forgotten. She understood that enthusiasm isn’t embarrassing. That questions are more valuable than answers. That the distance between dreaming and doing is usually just the courage to begin.

People joke about peaking in kindergarten like it’s sad. Like hitting your highest point at age five means everything after was downhill. But maybe we’re thinking about it wrong.

Maybe we didn’t peak in kindergarten. Maybe that’s when we were most ourselves. Before we learned to apologize for existing. Before we started asking permission to dream. Before we decided that purple smoke from chimneys was weird instead of wonderful.

All the essential parts were already there. The creativity. The courage. The unfiltered joy. Not childish things to outgrow, but the foundation of who we actually are.

The tragedy isn’t that we peaked at five. It’s that we’ve spent every year since then apologizing for it.

I found that old photo last week. The one with the gap-toothed grin and the mismatched clothes. That kid with seventeen questions lined up and absolute certainty that dinosaur scientist musicians were not only possible but inevitable.

She’s still in there. Waiting.

Waiting for me to remember that questions are more interesting than answers. That purple smoke isn’t wrong, it’s better. That confidence isn’t arrogance when it comes from genuinely loving what you create. That the opinions of five-year-old you might actually be more trustworthy than the opinions of everyone who taught you to doubt yourself.

Maybe it’s time to stop calling kindergarten a peak. Maybe it’s time to call it what it really was: the foundation. The blueprint. The original version before everyone else started editing.

That kid knew something I’m only now remembering. Being yourself isn’t something you grow out of. It’s something you grow back into.

If that’s peaking, then I’m ready to peak again.