I Spent a Week Living by My Childhood Rules

I Spent a Week Living by My Childhood Rules

By Hasnain Shah

A fun yet emotional experiment in innocence and rediscovery

When I was nine, I had a list of rules taped to the back of my bedroom door. It was written in purple glitter pen, decorated with stars and smudged fingerprints. At the top, in capital letters, it said:

“RULES FOR A GOOD LIFE.”

Below that, in my loopy child handwriting, were ten commandments of my own creation:

Eat ice cream when sad.

Never say no to the playground.

Believe people are good until proven bad.

Always tell the truth, even if your voice shakes.

Laugh if something’s funny, even in class.

Don’t be afraid of the dark—it’s just where dreams sleep.

Share your snacks.

Don’t rush.

Cry when you need to.

Always say “I love you” before bed.

I rediscovered that list a few months ago while cleaning out a storage box at my mom’s house. It was folded between old report cards and friendship bracelets, and when I read it, something in my chest shifted—like a window opening in a stuffy room.

At thirty-four, my current “rules for a good life” are different:

Answer emails immediately.

Don’t eat after 9 p.m.

Keep your emotions to yourself at work.

Stay busy.

Don’t cry in public.

In other words: survive quietly.

So, as an experiment—or maybe an act of rebellion—I decided to live by nine-year-old me’s rules for an entire week.

Day 1: Ice Cream for Breakfast

It started small. Monday morning, I skipped my usual black coffee and protein bar and went for a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream instead.

It felt ridiculous at first—melting sugar at 8 a.m.—but halfway through, I was smiling. There was something deliciously defiant about it. My adult brain kept whispering, “You’ll crash later,” but the kid in me didn’t care. She was too busy humming the SpongeBob theme and swinging her legs under the table.

Day 2: The Playground Test

Rule two said never say no to the playground.

So during my lunch break, I walked to the park near my apartment. The playground was mostly empty except for a few toddlers and tired parents. I sat on a swing, awkward at first, then gave myself a little push.

Within minutes, I was soaring higher and higher, the chains creaking, my stomach lifting the way it used to when I thought I could kick the clouds. I laughed out loud—and people stared—but I didn’t stop.

By the time I left, I felt lighter than I had in months.

Day 3: The Hardest Rule

“Believe people are good until proven bad.”

That one was tricky. I’d built a career in marketing, a field that trains you to question everyone’s motives. But that day, I decided to give people the benefit of the doubt.

When a barista messed up my order, I smiled instead of sighing. When a coworker interrupted me in a meeting, I assumed excitement, not arrogance. And strangely, the day flowed smoother. People smiled back. Maybe belief is contagious.

Day 4: Tell the Truth

I called my mom. We talked about small things at first—weather, groceries, the neighbor’s new dog—before I blurted out, “I’ve been lonely lately.”

There was silence. Then she said, softly, “Me too.”

We talked for an hour, longer than we had in months. Sometimes the truth doesn’t set you free; it just opens a door.

Day 5: Laugh in Class

I didn’t have a classroom anymore, but I did have Zoom meetings. During one, my coworker’s cat walked across the keyboard and accidentally turned on a disco filter. Everyone laughed—except me, at first. Then I remembered the rule.

So I let myself laugh—really laugh—and my boss typed, “Good to hear you laugh, Maya.” That message stayed with me all day.

Day 6: Don’t Rush

Saturday morning, I walked instead of drove. I noticed the smell of wet leaves, the sound of a kid’s bike bell, the way the sunlight pooled in puddles. Time stretched, and I realized how often I’d been racing through life without noticing I was already in it.

Day 7: Say ‘I Love You’ Before Bed

That night, I texted three people I love but rarely say it to—my brother, my best friend, and my mom.

Each one replied with a heart.

I slept deeply, peacefully, like I hadn’t in years.

When the week ended, I didn’t tape the list back on my door. Instead, I put it on my fridge.

Because it turns out, nine-year-old me didn’t just have childhood wisdom—she had human wisdom. Somewhere along the way, I’d traded joy for efficiency, wonder for productivity. But for seven days, I remembered what it felt like to live with curiosity instead of caution.

And that’s something worth following, even as an adult.