There is no more proper human being than someone who knows how to move back and forth between being a child and being an adult. Someone who understands responsibility but hasn’t buried curiosity.
Someone who can carry the weight of life and still find joy in simple, unnecessary things. This balance is rare, and maybe that’s why it feels so real when you see it.
Growing up was supposed to mean learning. Somewhere along the way, it turned into unlearning ourselves. We were told that maturity looks like seriousness, restraint, and emotional control.
That laughing too freely, dreaming too openly, or behaving too lightly makes you look irresponsible. So we learned to hide parts of ourselves that once felt natural.
But real maturity isn’t about becoming stiff. It’s about knowing when to be strong and when to be soft. It’s about understanding the rules of the world without letting them erase who you are.
A person who can switch between child and adult understands this instinctively. They know when life demands discipline, and when it simply asks for presence.
Many adults live with a quiet tension inside them. They do what is expected. They act composed. They behave correctly. Yet something feels missing.
Not because life is unfair, but because they abandoned parts of themselves too early. The playful voice inside them slowly went silent, replaced by constant responsibility and self-judgment.
We often assume growing up means outgrowing joy. We stop dancing without reason. We stop being curious about small things. We stop doing things just because they make us feel alive.
Not because we don’t want to - but because we’re afraid of how it will look. Afraid of appearing immature. Afraid of not fitting into the image of adulthood we’ve been taught to perform.
But here’s the truth most people discover too late: seriousness doesn’t equal wisdom. And silence doesn’t equal depth. Some of the most emotionally mature people are the ones who laugh easily, feel deeply, and still know how to handle life. They don’t suppress their inner child. They protect it.
Being real with yourself means allowing both versions of you to exist. The adult who pays bills, keeps promises, and shows up when it matters. And the child who wonders, imagines, plays, and feels without overthinking. These two don’t cancel each other out. They strengthen each other.
If there was something you couldn’t pursue in childhood - a dream you postponed, a curiosity you ignored, a joy you were told was impractical - adulthood isn’t too late. In fact, it might be the right time. Now you have choice. Now you understand consequences. Now you can return to those desires with clarity instead of confusion.
Doing something now that you once wanted doesn’t make you regressive. It makes you honest. Healing often looks like revisiting the parts of yourself you were forced to abandon. Not to escape responsibility, but to reconnect with meaning.
People who move gracefully between child and adult don’t live louder lives. They live truer ones. They take life seriously when needed, and lightly when possible. They don’t perform maturity - they embody balance. They understand that life isn’t meant to be carried like a burden all the time.
You didn’t grow up to become a stranger to yourself. You grew up to understand yourself better. And sometimes, understanding means letting yourself play again, feel again, dream again - without guilt.
Maybe the most proper human being isn’t the one who looks the most mature. Maybe it’s the one who never lost touch with the version of themselves that knew how to feel alive.