I have many names. Father. Husband. Employee. Son. But sometimes I wonder—who is the person behind all these names?
We collect identities like we collect clothes. We wear them. We get comfortable. Then we forget what we looked like without them.
I was seven once. I remember lying on grass, looking at clouds. The clouds became elephants. Then ships. Then dragons. Time moved slowly in those days. Like honey. Like a river with no hurry. I could become anything. A pilot flying through those same clouds. A doctor saving lives. Superman, if I tried hard enough. The whole universe seemed to exist just for my dreams.
Then the walls came.
School came first. Do this. Don’t do that. Sit straight. Write neatly. Get good marks. Then college came with its deadlines and pressures. Then job interviews. Then marriage. Each thing was beautiful. Each thing was necessary. But each thing was also a brick in a wall I was building around that little boy who believed he could fly.
Now my mornings have a script. Alarm rings. I drink coffee. I go to work. I come back. I eat. I sleep. The same thing happens again tomorrow. The mirror shows my face every day. I recognize it. But do I really see it?
Behind these eyes, there is a universe. Memories pressed like flowers in old books. Feelings that have no names. Words that were never said. Dreams that were never chased. But I am too busy to visit that universe. There is always something more urgent.
Last week, something happened.
My son was writing in his notebook before sleeping. I asked him what he was writing.
“My dreams, Baba,” he said. “When I grow up, I want to be a bird.”
I almost said what adults say. Birds are not possible. Be realistic. Think about your future. Choose something practical.
But I stopped. I watched him jump on the couch with his arms spread wide. His face was shining. He was absolutely certain he would fly someday.
That night, I could not sleep.
When did I stop looking at stars? As a child, I would lie on the roof and count them. Now I don’t even notice them. When did rain become a problem? As a child, I would run outside and dance in it. Now I complain about traffic. When did flowers stop making me pause? I walk past them every day. I don’t even see them anymore.
The boy is still inside me. I know this. Sometimes, in quiet moments, I can hear him. Usually when I am holding my coffee cup and watching steam rise. Or sitting by the window, watching raindrops race down the glass. In these moments, time becomes soft. And he comes to the surface.
“How are you?” I ask him.
“Waiting,” he says. “You don’t have time for me anymore.”
“I don’t have time.”
“You don’t have time? Or you don’t make time?”
This question hurts more than I expected. I spend hours scrolling through my phone. Looking at other people’s lives. Reading news I will forget in ten minutes. But I cannot find ten minutes to wonder. To dream. To just sit and feel the wind on my face.
I track my productivity. I make lists. I manage my schedule down to the minute. But somewhere in all this managing, I lost something. I lost the ability to waste time beautifully. To do nothing and feel happy about it. To just exist without purpose.
Who am I, really?
Am I the responsible man who pays bills on time? The employee who meets deadlines? The father who teaches his son to be practical? The husband who remembers anniversaries?
Or am I the dreamer who once traced stars with his finger? The boy who talked to trees? The child who believed magic was real?
Maybe I am all of these. Maybe I am none of these. Maybe identity is not a fixed thing. Maybe it keeps changing. Maybe the person I was yesterday is not the person I am today. Maybe the person I will be tomorrow is someone I haven’t met yet.
I know one thing for certain. I am more than my name tag at work. I am more than my role at home. I am more than my to-do list. Something vast lives behind this ordinary face. Something that has no name. Something that cannot be measured or managed or scheduled.
My son still believes he will become a bird. I hope he holds onto this belief as long as he can. Not because it’s true. But because the believing itself is beautiful. The capacity to dream impossible dreams—this is what makes us human. This is what we lose when we grow up. This is what I want back.
Yesterday I did something strange. I went to a park. I took off my shoes. I walked on grass with bare feet. It felt cold. It felt alive. I looked up at the sky. For five minutes, I did nothing. I just stood there. Breathing. Feeling. Being.
A man in a suit walked past me. He looked at me like I was crazy. Maybe I was. But in those five minutes, I felt more alive than I had felt in months. The boy inside me smiled. Finally, he said. Finally.
We are all carrying children inside us. Children who got buried under responsibilities and expectations. Children who stopped believing because someone told them to be realistic. Children who forgot how to play, how to wonder, how to waste time joyfully.
Sometimes I think growing up is just a long process of forgetting. We forget how to laugh without reason. We forget how to cry without shame. We forget how to ask questions that have no answers. We become sensible. We become practical. We become successful. And somewhere along the way, we become strangers to ourselves.
The boy inside me doesn’t want much. He doesn’t want money or success or recognition. He just wants to be remembered. He wants me to look at clouds sometimes. He wants me to dance in rain once in a while. He wants me to believe in impossible things, even if just for a moment.
I think I will try.
Tomorrow morning, before the alarm rings, before the coffee and the commute and the meetings, I will sit by the window. I will watch the sun rise. I will ask the boy how he’s doing. And I will listen. Really listen.
Maybe you have a child inside you too. Maybe they have been waiting. Maybe they have something to tell you.
Perhaps it’s time to listen.