The Boy Inside Me

The Boy Inside Me: Rediscovering Childhood Dreams

One day I realized—I have many names, but I’m not sure I know who’s behind them.

We collect identities like layers of clothing. Father. Employee. Husband. Each role fitting snugly until we forget what we looked like underneath.

I remember being seven, lying on cool grass, watching clouds reshape themselves into elephants and ships. Time moved differently then—slow as honey, rich as possibility. I could become anything: a pilot cutting through those same clouds, a doctor healing the world, even Superman if I concentrated hard enough. The universe felt custom-made for my dreams.

Then came the walls. School hallways echoing with “Do this, don’t do that.” College deadlines. Job interviews. Marriage vows. Each milestone beautiful, necessary—but also another room in the maze I was building around that boy who once believed he could fly.

Now my mornings follow scripts. Alarm. Coffee. Commute. The mirror shows a face I recognize but rarely truly see. Behind these eyes lives a universe—memories like pressed flowers, feelings that have no names, words that were never spoken. But I’m usually too busy to visit.

Conversations With My Inner Child

Last week my son was writing in his notebook before bed. “What’s that?” I asked.

“My dreams, Dad. When I grow up, I want to be a bird.”

I almost said what adults say: “Birds aren’t possible.” Instead, I watched him leap onto the couch, arms spread wide, face lit with absolute certainty.

That night, sleep wouldn’t come. When did I stop looking at stars? When did rain become an inconvenience instead of an invitation? When did the smell of blooming flowers stop making me pause mid-stride?

The boy is still here. Sometimes, in quiet moments, we talk. Usually when I’m holding my coffee mug, watching steam curl upward, or sitting by the window as raindrops race down the glass. In these suspended moments, time softens, and he surfaces.

“How are you?” I ask.

“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?”

The question cuts deeper than expected. I scroll through social media for hours but can’t spare ten minutes for wonder. I track productivity but lose track of beauty. I manage schedules but misplace spontaneity.

Rediscovering Who We Are

Who am I, really? The responsible man who pays bills and keeps promises? The dreamer who once traced constellations with his finger? The father teaching his son to be practical? The child who still believes in magic?

Maybe I’m all of these. Maybe I’m none. Maybe identity isn’t a fixed thing but a conversation—between who I was, who I am, and who I might become.

I know this much: I’m more than my name tag. More than my to-do list. Something vast and unknowable lives behind this familiar face.

Perhaps the searching is the answer. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll step outside, feel grass beneath my feet, and remember what it’s like to be both the man and the boy.

Perhaps you should too