Meeting My 10-Year-Old Self Changed How I See Adulthood

I have a secret: I fantasize about meeting my past self. This fantasy’s conception occurred after I watched My Old Ass with Aubrey Plaza, a film where she meets her younger self and tries to provide wisdom and insight to her to prevent failure, heartbreak and hurt.

So now, every so often, usually in the middle of an existential crisis or while staring blankly at the ceiling trying to calm my racing mind, I find myself haunted by an oddly specific question: What would 10-year-old me think of all this? 

Not the adult façade, not the LinkedIn-approved résumé, but the actual unfiltered life I live. Would she be impressed? Confused? Bored?

It’s a disarming exercise. We like to think we’ve evolved light-years from the children we once were, but if you dig around long enough, the roots are still firmly planted–sticky fingers, big dreams, and all. 

And yet, as adults, we often behave as if our inner child is irrelevant–like we shed them after growing into a new, adult skin. But the truth is, they’re still there, arms crossed and tapping their foot, wondering when we decided joy was optional. 

When did I start treating joy like a luxury item—like something to be earned instead of a state of grace?

Think back: at 10 years old, what were you obsessed with? Maybe you memorized every dinosaur fact and corrected adults about the Triassic period (I know I did). Maybe you wrote bad poems in your new Lisa Frank trapper keeper. Or, perhaps you choreographed dances in your bedroom mirror? 

The thing is, you did it without an agenda. Whatever it was, you loved it without conditions. You weren’t asking, “Will this look good on a résumé?” or “Does this align with my five-year-plan?”

You weren’t driven by getting followers back and increasing online engagement or trying to monetize something. You did it because you loved it. 

Lately, I’ve felt like maybe I’ve lost that. What do I do for fun? When did I decide that the things I intrinsically enjoyed needed to be de-prioritized? 

Many of us trade wonder for practicality. I overthink a hobby before I even start. “Should I do this? What if it’s hard? What if I’m not good at it? Could I monetize it?” And what once started as an activity to destress, unwind and have fun, now feels like another line item in a self improvement plan. 

Back to my fantasy of meeting younger Celeste. I worry that she’ll be disappointed in how it’s turned out so far. “Why didn’t you chase our dreams?” she’ll ask. 

When I day dream about meeting myself, I mull over and rewrite how I would answer this question. 

Sometimes I think I’d blame exhaustion–life gets heavy in ways I hope a ten-year-old never has to imagine. Other times I think I’d tell her that survival took priority over making magic. Paying the bills, healing a heart break, and constantly proving yourself in a world that doesn’t exactly hand out gold stars for trying. 

I imagine her flinching. There’s a sting. Because the real answer, the truth, isn’t neat: fear. I was scared. I am scared. 

Scared of failing publicly, of wanting too much, of being too much. Somewhere during the last 17 years, I had convinced myself that dreams weren’t safe and the activities unconditionally loved were not important anymore. 

And maybe she’d be mad or confused or disappointed. But kids are resilient in ways adults forget. Maybe she’d surprise me, and be quick to forgive. A small sweaty palm on my cheek. A tender hug. And an immediate question: “Okay, but are you going to try again?”

Children forgive easily because they believe in second chances. Maybe the only one I ever needed to forgive me was her.

To make your inner child proud isn’t to mimic them. It’s not about reviving every hobby or living inside a time capsule of childhood dreams. Feeling proud, to the younger version of you, originates from something quieter, more enduring: proof that you carried their spark forward instead of letting it burn out.

I used to mistake perfection for bravery because perfection says, “Don’t do it until you’ve mastered it,” when bravery endorses, “Do it, even if you’ll fail, even if you fall. Do it.” 

And maybe my younger self really wanted me to be brave. To step into rooms they could only imagine, to speak with a voice she’s been learning to find. She wanted fearlessness. How daunting of her!

In a world full of other bosses we serve, I am learning how to serve me again. 

So perhaps making your inner child proud is not in the ground gestures but in the subtler ones: the morning after a bad day when you get up and try again, the dignity you give yourself when no one is watching and the way you continue to choose wonder in a world that fosters cynicism. 

Making your inner child proud is less about proving you remembered them, and more about showing you never abandoned them.

If you feel lost, as I do at times, maybe the answer isn’t forward. Maybe it’s backward–back to the sandbox, where the world felt infinite and the smallest creation was worthy of applause. Where castles crumbled but we built them again anyway.

Ten-year-old me didn’t measure a life in bullet points or bank statements. She measured it in the depth of a good belly laugh, trying something new without any expectation of the outcome and the thrill of a slumber party with your friends on a Friday night.

That wisdom hasn’t disappeared. Perhaps it was just waiting for its time to shine again. Thank you, Saturn return. 

To return to your inner child is not regression, but a recalibration. It’s remembering that joy was never frivolous, that wonder is never a waste, and realizing that you are still carrying that child within you. Because your younger self is still holding their hand out, asking you to play, to dream and to live with a little more abandon. They’ve been waiting patiently for you to look up, to remember that play isn’t childish—it’s sacred.

I think the truest form of growing up is not outgrowing yourself–it’s returning, gathering the pieces you might’ve left behind, and building a life full enough to hold them all. 

Your inner child isn’t a relic of the past. They are the beginning of you. Every beginning deserves to be honored.