There was a version of me who knew exactly how to play.
She wandered through bookstores without looking for anything in particular. She bought stickers simply because they made her smile. I doodled in the margins of notebooks and believed an ordinary afternoon could become a little adventure if I let it. I’d buy all the shoes and bags I wanted the moment I withdrew my pay.
I never asked whether joy was productive.
I simply welcomed it.
Somewhere along the way, I became very good at being responsible.
Being a mom.
Being a wife.
Orders to pack.
Emails to answer.
Bills to pay.
Deadlines to meet.
Groceries to buy.
Things to remember.
Chores to do.
People counting on me.
I didn’t decide to become serious overnight. It happened quietly, almost politely. One responsibility arrived, then another, until playfulness slowly stepped aside to make room.
One day, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I did something simply because it delighted me.
Not because it would become content.
Not because it might turn into a business.
Not because it would help me reach a goal.
Just because it made me happy.
I wonder if that’s what growing up sometimes looks like.
Not losing joy all at once.
Just postponing it until after the to-do list.
But the to-do list didn’t stop.
It never does.
The funny thing is, I don’t think adulthood took play away from me.
I think I accidentally traded it.
Every hobby started feeling like it needed a purpose.
If I painted, it should become a product.
If I read, it should teach me something.
If I went somewhere beautiful, I should probably take photos while I was there.
Even rest quietly turned into another item to optimize.
Without realizing it, I had become wonderfully responsible…
and a little too serious.
When I looked closer, the signs had been there for a while.
I rushed through beautiful places instead of lingering.
I stopped trying things I wasn’t already good at.
I reached for the practical option almost every time.
I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed so hard that I forgot to check the time.
And somewhere underneath all of that, I missed the woman who thought an ordinary Tuesday was reason enough to do something lovely.
I’ve been realizing lately that play isn’t something I outgrew.
It’s something I need.
Not because I’m avoiding adulthood.
But because joy belongs there too.
These days, I’m trying to invite it back in, quietly.
Sometimes that means buying the pretty sticker sheet.
Sometimes it’s wandering through a bookstore with no shopping list.
Sometimes it’s painting leaves that don’t need to become anything.
Sometimes it’s ordering dessert because it looks happy.
Sometimes it’s wearing the earrings I’d been saving for “a special occasion,” only to decide that today is special enough.
Some evenings, it looks like a chapter or two of The Apothecary Diaries.
Other evenings, it’s a few rounds of a cozy restaurant game while my mind untangles a thought.
None of those moments erase the responsibilities waiting for me when I get home.
The orders are still there.
The laundry still needs folding.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are still waiting to be cooked.
None of it is about escaping my life. It’s about remembering that joy deserves a place in it.
But I notice something changes in me.
I feel lighter.
Softer.
More curious.
More like myself.
Maybe that’s what play has been trying to do all along.
Not distract me from life.
But gently remind me that I’m allowed to enjoy living it.
—-
With elegance and quiet fire,
Lady E
Founder, Glow by Lady E
An editorial space for stories, art, and intentional living
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