I remember it vividly: about 10-year-old me deciding, with a level of seriousness no child should ever have, that it was time to grow up. I gathered every Barbie, every horse, every tiny plastic accessory and packed them neatly into a box. I handed it to my mom and told her with determination to take it away.

“It’s not cool anymore.”

My heart cracked a little, but I ignored it. I had already convinced myself: Play is childish. Imagination is embarrassing. I’m too old for this. And just like that, a part of me, the most alive, imaginative, playful part, disappeared into a plastic box I wouldn’t dare to open fully again for almost two decades.

The day I stopped playing

Even then, I knew I didn’t want to stop. I still wanted to create elaborate horse farms out of Schleich ponies, send my Barbies on dramatic adventures, chop their hair into chaotic buzzcuts, draw crooked eyeliner on their faces with a black permanent marker (my version of “Weird Barbie”). But I was afraid someone would see. Afraid it would look embarrassing. Afraid that if I was caught being playful, I would be judged.

So I shut the box. And when the box closed, play closed with it.

Growing up too soon

My teenage years were defined by seriousness, ambition, and relentless internal pressure. At the stables, when other riders laughed and goofed around, I felt irritated.

“I’m here to train. I have goals. I don’t have time for that.”

I loved horses deeply, they were my lifeline, but I didn’t know how to enjoy them without the underlying pressure weighing down on me. I held myself to impossible standards, perfection or nothing. And because perfection wasn’t achievable, the joy slipped through my fingers as the sense of failure started creeping in. My own unrealistic expectations wore down my confidence, my self-belief, my trust in myself.

Of course, this is the fastest way to kill the joy of any hobby: turn it into something performative, pressurised, or, in my case, tied to self-worth. But I didn’t understand that yet. My 20s weren’t much different. Playfulness always carried guilt. If I wasn’t being productive or performing productivity, I felt unsafe. If I was enjoying something “silly,” I felt irresponsible and like I was wasting time.

I didn’t realise it then, but I was living in a survival state — a frozen one. My body was here, but my mind was elsewhere: calculating, worrying, pleasing others, preparing for the worst outcome of any situation. Play requires presence, and presence requires safety. And I rarely felt safe enough (in myself) to be fully present in the moment.

Play requires presence, and presence requires safety.

Creativity was the one thing that never left

Even though the box was hidden, the imagination never really died. It just changed shape.

It seeped into the gory murder stories I turned in for school assignments (a little concerning in hindsight, but we move), random poems scattered on various note apps, the essays about existential topics on my various blogs, and the scribbles in journals that slowly revealed more about myself than any conversation ever did.

Writing became a safe place where I could practice expressing myself. But even then, I treated creativity as something “serious.” You must be good at it. You must be talented. You must do it perfectly.

It never occurred to me that creativity is just play. That self-expression doesn’t need permission. That fun isn’t something you earn; it’s something you allow. And play is fundamental to a healthy and emotionally resilient life.

If I don’t create, I lose my spark

Over and over, life has taught me the same lesson (universe, noted! You can stop sending this one now):

When I abandon my creativity, I abandon myself.

Without some form of expression, writing, dancing, movement, something, I wilt. I disconnect from myself and become deeply sad, foggy, numb – depressed. My soul starts pounding on the inside of my ribcage demanding to be freed, “Hello!? You’re suffocating me!” When I suppress my creativity, I suppress my life force. And when I let myself create, even just a little, I come back to life. It feels like I can see in colour again.

When I suppress my creativity, I suppress my life force. And when I let myself create, even just a little, I come back to life. It feels like I can see in colour again.

Acting: The homecoming I didn’t expect

A year ago, I challenged myself to try new things; something fun, something that didn’t have to make any sense or lead anywhere.

So I signed up for salsa (loved it), and then: acting.

I thought acting meant pretending, putting on a mask, performing — things I was already familiar with in my daily life. But in the first five minutes of my first class, I learned the opposite:

Acting is telling the truth in imagined, given circumstances. It’s about stripping off the masks, not adding new ones. It’s about presence, listening, feeling – letting yourself be seen in your full authenticity.

For the first time in my thirty years, I was told my emotions weren’t too much. My quiet, my depth, my ability to truly listen weren’t flaws; they were the gateway. Acting helped remind me that creativity is about truth, presence, and courage.

For the first time in my thirty years, I was told my emotions weren’t too much. My quiet, my depth, my ability to truly listen weren’t flaws; they were the gateway.

Creativity is the way back

It’s taken some psychotherapy, self-understanding, nervous system regulation, and gentle unlearning, but here’s what I now know: Self-expression is not optional for (most of) us. It is the path back to ourselves. Creativity heals because it reconnects us with intuition, presence, wonder, play, authenticity, and joy.

Creativity pulls us back into our bodies, and reminds us that we’re alive and that there is something worth living for. It invites the inner child out of her hiding place. It lets us rewrite the story that play is dangerous or frivolous. Creativity isn’t about talent or achievement. It’s about letting your truth move through you in whatever form it wants.

Creativity pulls us back into our bodies, and reminds us that we’re alive and that there is something worth living for. It invites the inner child out of her hiding place. It lets us rewrite the story that play is dangerous or frivolous.

For me, that looks like writing messy essays and polished ones, dancing at home or in Salsa parties, acting scenes that challenge me and provide a safe space to channel my deep, emotional world, and making muija my playground, my canvas, my corner on the Internet.

When I create, I come home. And maybe that’s just the whole point.