My Child’s Pure Perception

As children, everything is desirable. We don’t understand adult stress; we only know we want to grow up, to be one of them. We look ahead, we reach, we strive. But as the years roll on, innocence fades, replaced by responsibilities. Responsibilities breed doubt. Doubt breeds aversion. Aversion breeds clinging, Clinging to what, Do you know? We stop trying to experience life and start trying to be right. Then we spend our energy trying not to be wrong. And before long, the illusion of status crumbles, and we find ourselves standing there—the fool who wasted a lifetime chasing something not really knowing what, something that could never be caught.

The child I once was had a clearer view of reality than I do today. That baby, before it knew shame, pain, and self-doubt, was closer to truth. It was pure perception—without the burden of suffering. The baby was happy, effortlessly so. But adults? Adults wear happiness like a mask, convincing themselves they are happy when, really, they’re just performing it. A fleeting smile, a forced laugh, and beneath it all, . Oh and suffering over the smallest inconvenience.

There’s only one way to be truly happy: let go of ego. Let go of attachment to identity. Stop trying to be somebody, or not be somebody. Stop trying to look happy. How many masks do we wear? How many layers have we added over the years?

Now, lost in the dreamy maze of my own mind, I realize something. I’ve built a world—my world. A world I have neglected as I wander on and on trying to find my way home. I defend it as if it’s real, yet I can’t see myself in it. I only see the projections of others, all playing the same game. Everyone is guarding something. Everyone has an agenda.

So what is real happiness? Why do we call it a higher happiness? Because when you realize it, suffering loses its bite. It doesn’t vanish, but it no longer defines you. And how do I get there? The first step is to see the emptiness—the utter insignificance of my ego’s grasping. If I die tomorrow, would it really matter? Yes, my family might grieve, but even that grief would fade with time. That’s just how things are.

So I step back and watch my mind, like an audience watching a film. I let thoughts rise and fall, one after another, each wave dissolving into the next. And the secret is this: don’t cling, don’t be in the movie—just watch it. Thoughts come and go, self-perception shifts, but at the core, it’s all the same.

Existence cycles on, life after life, endlessly. What is eternity? It’s so long that, eventually, I will become you, and you will become me. The only thing separating us is our sense of self. But even a fly has a sense of self. All creatures do. And in that way, we are exactly the same. Your selfhood moves through the world just as mine does, shaped by unique desires. Desire isn’t the enemy—it’s what connects us to life. It isn’t about repression. It’s about clarity. When we relate to the world with an open mind, free from preconceptions, free from self-serving attachments, free from running for ever running into the future, we finally see with the eyes of that baby—the one who knew how to look without fear and distortion.

A pure view lifts us above the tangled mess of doubt and desire. When we see clearly, everything else falls into place. Wisdom absorbs the lower realms, transcending suffering, because suffering is only real when we cling to it. And when we meet our true nature all the realms are emptied. And what are we left with? Pure Presence. A deep, simple joy in experiencing this life for what it is—nature looking at itself, through our senses, through our consciousness. That’s why we are here. That’s why we exist. Not to chase, or own, or fight—but to witness, to feel, to be.

The baby understood. The world does not. And yet, the moment we stop clinging, we inherit everything. Not as something to possess, but as something to live in, fully and freely. Who decided the earth could be bought and sold? That we must trade our lives away for the illusion of ownership? The land, the sky, the seasons—they belong to no one. And in their belonging to no one, they belong to us all.

Adam Holden

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