Recess of the Soul

In the faded photographs of my childhood, I see a girl with windswept hair and laughter that echoed like a promise. She chased butterflies in fields that smelled of wet earth and possibility. Recess was a kingdom where rules didn't bind her; imagination was the currency, and freedom was the prize. No clocks ticked loud enough to cage her hours. No voices whispered "not yet" or "not enough."

Decades drifted like autumn leaves, and that girl grew into a woman navigating structured days, curated feeds, and expectations carefully packaged like gifts with bows. The melodies of carefree youth still played in my mind, but the beat now pulsed with a different rhythm – one of obligations, checkboxes, and "shoulds." Sometimes I'd catch myself wondering: _Where did we put the map?_

Yet, in quieter moments, the whispers of that kingdom lingered. The urge to run wild, to tag invisible foes, to laugh without reason – it didn't vanish; it submerged. Listening to songs we belted out as kids, I'd smile like a trantling ghost of my former self. _What were we so free of?_ I'd think. _What did we let go?_

Growing up, we'd thought adults held the keys to freedom. Turns out, they were figuring it out too – fumbling with their own shadows, pushing traumas into corners, calling it "adulting." We traded wild recess for a different kind of chaos: deadlines, comparisons, and a loneliness that came dressed in digital clothes.

But here's what I realized: the grown kids I know (myself included) aren't broken; we're paused. We're carrying unopened letters from our younger selves – letters that say, _Play. Dream. Break free._ The scars we gather? They're maps of where we've been fierce. The wounds? They're reminders to return to the art of healing.

In this in-between space, I met others like me. We started tiny revolts – laughing loudly in cafes, writing in margins of books, planting gardens in forgotten corners of the city. We spoke of inner children, of letting them lead sometimes. We hugged the messy parts, the parts that don't fit neat narratives.

One night, under a streetlamp that hummed like a lizard, a friend said, "What if the monsters aren't outside? What if they're the masks we wear to fit?" We talked of facades cracking, of predators needing cycles of victims, of dreamers needing to unmask.

Growth bruises. It requires stumbling into discomfort. Expecting better from ourselves (and others) isn't idealism; it's wiring ourselves for sparks. Like circuits needing dust to clear.

Our future selves wait at a round table with our child-selves. No judgments. Just nudge. _Show up._ Play. Breathe. Heal.

The girl in the photograph? She still chases butterflies. In dreams, I join her. We spin, and for a moment, the masks slip. We are raw, unpolished, free.

This is the revolt: to reclaim wildness. To tell scars, "You are proof." To tell wounds, "Heal, but leave a story." To tell ourselves, "The table's set. Show up."

In honesty and awkward leaps, we'll find our eras of wild recess again. No looking back with regret. Just forward – with the ghosts of laughter lingering, reminding us what freedom tastes like.

We began small: drawing on sidewalks, skipping meetings, writing letters to strangers. We planted sunflowers in cracked pavements. We said _no_ to "shoulds" and _yes_ to aimless strolls. And slowly, like spring in an abandoned lot, wildness crept back.

No grand gestures. Just tiny cracks in the armor. Just us, showing up, messy and raw, at the table of life.