A child is born and the world opens.
Endless things to see, to do, to experience.
A world of beauty and potential.
Everything is a challenge, everything has to be overcome. First word, first step, first everything.
Everything is hard, but nothing is impossible.
No shame, no doubt, no overthinking.
Just a curious being, exploring their own potential and the world.
As children, we explore freely.
As adults, we only want to get somewhere.
Because at some point our curiosity is replaced.
Replaced by obligation.
Replaced by norms.
Replaced by fear.
Instead of getting pulled by curiosity, people are pushed by endless fear. They fear what they might become, what they might not become, and how people perceive them.
They become so caught up in their own self-image that they cannot just follow that genuine curious pull. They can’t move with ease. They can’t fall and get back up like a toddler would, because each fall hurts their pride, their ego. Each fall becomes something they can hold against themselves, just as each win becomes something they can use to inflate that fragile sense of self.
It’s a constant tally.
A scorecard that no one else can see but that dictates every move.
And so life becomes about maintenance.
Maintaining a version of yourself that looks right, sounds right, seems right. You no longer learn for the sake of learning, you learn to prove. You no longer act for the joy of action, you act to justify. You no longer grow for the thrill of discovery, you grow to meet an expectation that was never yours to begin with.
You stop asking why.
You start asking what will they think.
The child that once reached out without hesitation now hesitates even to dream. The curiosity that once pulled you forward now whispers faintly beneath layers of logic, fear, and practicality.
You convince yourself that this is maturity.
That this is wisdom.
That this is what it means to be an adult.
But what if it’s not?
What if the child you used to be was closer to truth than the adult you’ve become? What if curiosity wasn’t meant to be outgrown, but carried carefully through every stage of life?
Instead, we trade our wonder for approval. We silence the most honest voice inside us to fit into a world that no one fully understands.
Because curiosity is dangerous.
It makes you question what others accept. It makes you move when others stand still. It makes you feel alive in a world that has learned to perform life instead of living it.
So we learn to suppress it.
We are taught to follow the path that others walked. To choose security over growth. To think in straight lines rather than wander through open fields.
We create lives that look stable but feel hollow. We move in circles, repeating the same motions, chasing the same symbols of success, feeling a quiet ache that never leaves. The ache of what life truly could be.
But then, sometimes, curiosity returns.
It sneaks back through the cracks. You feel it when you stare at the stars too long, when you walk in silence, when you catch yourself wondering if this is really it. You feel it when something inside you whispers there must be more.
And there is.
There always was.
Curiosity doesn’t promise comfort.
It promises movement.
It asks you to let go of what you think you are, so you can find what you truly are.
It pulls you toward uncertainty, toward creation, toward the unknown.
It doesn’t care about your plans or your titles or your fears. It only wants you to see what you haven’t yet seen, to feel what you’ve forgotten to feel. It wants to remind you that life was never meant to be a series of achievements, but an ongoing experiment in discovery.
Children understand this.
They don’t explore because they’re trying to become something. They explore because they already are something — pure awareness, unfiltered by expectation.
Every fall is part of learning.
Every mistake is just another way of seeing.
Every question is a doorway to a bigger world.
You once lived like that.
Before fear told you to be careful.
Before shame told you to be quiet.
Curiosity doesn’t disappear when you stop listening.
It waits. It hums quietly beneath the noise of your obligations. It waits for the moment you finally stop pretending that you’re fulfilled by control, comfort, and validation.
And when you finally turn toward it, you recognize the feeling. It’s the same one you had as a child, when everything was new and nothing was beneath wonder.
Follow that feeling again.
Not for gain, not for proof, not for anyone’s approval. Follow it because it is the only thing that still feels true.
You were not born to maintain an image. You were born to discover what you are capable of. To learn, to fall, to rise, to try again. To live as if the world were still opening, every single day.
Your curiosity might be your only honest emotion. And if you follow it long enough, it might remind you how to be alive.
Sincerely,
Milo Morrison