Rejected Advice from My Inner Child

I don’t hear voices—let’s get that straight.

But sometimes, when life becomes a pressure cooker of adult responsibilities, deadlines, and dishwashing, I hear a faint, mischievous whisper from the back of my brain. It’s small, it’s bratty, and it usually sounds like it’s holding a juice box.

That’s my inner child.

He’s seven years old, perpetually sticky, and absolutely convinced he knows better than me. Recently, after a particularly exhausting Monday that involved a broken printer, a coffee spill, and a meeting where Steve from accounting said, “Let’s circle back” one too many times, I sat on the couch and sighed.

That’s when he popped up.

“Why don’t you just quit your job and become a dinosaur?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Dinosaurs don’t go to meetings. Dinosaurs don’t file taxes. Dinosaurs just roar and eat stuff. Be a dinosaur.”

He had a point. A weird, unhelpful, prehistoric point—but a point nonetheless.


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Episode One: The Great Crayon Incident

My inner child’s second piece of advice came during a low blood sugar moment when I skipped lunch and found myself staring at a pack of colorful highlighters.

“They look like popsicles,” he said.

“No, they don’t,” I replied.

“They do. Try the pink one. It’s strawberry.”

“You’re not even real.”

“And yet I’m the only one here trying to make life fun again.”

He was winning the argument, and that was concerning.

Eventually, I compromised and ate a cookie instead of a highlighter. But for a moment, I really considered what strawberry ink might taste like. That’s the power of inner children—they have no concept of consequences, just cravings.


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Episode Two: Financial Advice from a Kid Who Thinks Monopoly is Real

One Saturday morning, I was budgeting my expenses with a calculator, a spreadsheet, and a headache.

Inner child popped up again.

“Why don’t you just buy a jetpack?”

“Because I have rent, utilities, and student loans.”

“But you’d get to work faster. And you’d look awesome.”

“You think jetpacks are cheap?”

“No, but if you pass GO, you get $200.”

“That's Monopoly.”

He crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed with my logic. “You’re no fun.”

Honestly, he wasn’t wrong. I used to buy fake tattoos, candy bracelets, and those gooey hand slappers with my allowance. Now I buy toilet paper and anxiety medication. Somewhere along the line, fun became a luxury instead of a priority.


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Episode Three: Dating Advice from a Boy Who Thinks Girls Have Cooties

I showed up to a first date wearing something sensible, with a list of witty conversation starters in my head.

Inner child chimed in: “Ask her if she likes farts.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Everyone likes farts.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Okay, then challenge her to a burping contest.”

“You’re a menace.”

“She’ll remember you forever.”

I ignored him. I stuck to grown-up topics like books, travel, and career goals. But halfway through dessert, I accidentally snorted while laughing—and she snorted back.

We ended up talking about our most embarrassing moments and laughing until we cried. That was when I realized: inner child might be immature, but he knows how to connect with people better than any dating coach on YouTube.


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Episode Four: The Great Escape Plan

On the worst day of the year—yes, the day I found out my vacation request was denied—my inner child proposed a full-blown escape.

“Pack a bag, fake your death, move to a treehouse. I know a guy.”

“You don’t know a guy.”

“Fine, but we can at least pretend the sofa is a pirate ship.”

“…What?”

“Come on. You be the captain. I’ll be the parrot. Let’s sail to the kitchen and plunder snacks.”

I didn’t have the energy to argue. So I did it. I climbed on the couch, yelled “Aye aye!” and dramatically navigated through the pillows with a remote as my compass.

Ten minutes later, I was laughing. Like, belly-laughing. I hadn’t laughed like that in weeks. Maybe months.

Turns out the kitchen does have snacks worth plundering.


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Final Thoughts from the Juice Box Guru

I don’t take all of my inner child’s advice. I still haven’t quit my job to become a dinosaur, and I’ve resisted the urge to eat crayons (so far). But I’ve started listening more closely to him.

He reminds me to dance when there’s music. To eat dessert first sometimes. To say what I feel, even if my voice squeaks. And to stop taking life so seriously that I forget it’s supposed to be fun.

Sure, he’s chaotic. He’s irrational. He once tried to convince me to climb a tree in dress shoes.

But he’s also the part of me that remembers how to play. And maybe—just maybe—play is the thing we all need more of.

Even if it means occasionally pretending your coffee mug is a rocket ship.


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