Grieving the Little Child

When you look back on your childhood, what do you remember?
Who do you remember yourself to be?
Do you even remember who that child was?
And perhaps the most haunting question of all—are you who that child imagined you would be when you reached the age you are today?

For a long time, I believed that at some point in life, we were all required to leave that little child behind. Maybe we do. Maybe that’s just the inevitable unfolding of time.

But recently, I found myself unable to look away from a photo I keep beside my bed. A younger me stares back—eyes full of something I can’t quite name. I don’t remember that photo being taken, but I remember the boy in it. He’s focused on the camera, probably trying to figure out how to open it.

There was a season in my childhood when my curiosity ran wild, untamed, unstoppable. When no one was looking, I would unscrew things—radios, TVs, cameras, any small appliance I could get my hands on—convinced that tiny people lived inside, pulling the strings. I asked endless questions, the kind some adults dismissed as “stupid.” But to me, there was always a why, always a how.

That curiosity isn’t dead in me today, but I can feel how much of its fire has dimmed.

And then there was my imagination—what a wild, radiant thing it was. Always getting me into trouble, always getting me into wonder. It gave me permission to see beyond what eyes could see, to glimpse worlds no one else seemed to notice.

And when I loved, I loved with an ocean inside me. There was no need for return, no bargain, no contract. Just love, pure and whole. Like a little Chinese saying: 我爱你就够了 — I love you, and that’s enough. That was me.

When I smiled, the joy behind it was bigger than the smile itself. It was true, every inch of it.

As a child, there was no past, so there was no regret.
There was no future, so there was no anxiety.
There was only the present, and I lived there fully, effortlessly, completely.

Life wasn’t perfect, but somehow my mind knew how to focus on the gems and ignore the shadows. Recognizing the beauty wasn’t work—it was instinct.

Now, as I near 30, before that child slips further away—before he is forgotten—I feel the need to grieve him in the most fitting way. Because when he was here, he was magic.

Before he noticed attention becoming scarce, and began clinging desperately to scraps of it.
Before he forgot his worth came from within, and started seeking it outside.
Before he began to expect things in return for the love he gave.
Before he stopped believing he was enough, and tried to fit himself into boxes that were never his.
Before he buried his light under the noise of the world.

That child was here. He mattered. He was glorious.

So I grieve him.
I grieve him for all the parts of him that were lovable but never loved enough.
I grieve him for the light that was dimmed by those who knew no better.
I grieve him for the gifts he carried that were never watered, promising him now that I will water them, and let the sun shine on them.

I grieve him, but I also remember him.
I thank him.
For all the beauty that began with him. For all the embers he left behind. For the joy, the curiosity, the wonder.

And I promise him: I will not let him be forgotten. I will fan those embers until they become a fire again. I will heal the wounds he suffered, the ones I still carry. I will hold on to the pieces of him that were magic, and I will not let them die.

Here’s to the child you once were.
Here’s to the child I once was.
Here’s to grieving them, remembering them, and promising to do better by the children who will one day be entrusted to our care.

Because they were here. And when they were—oh, they were nothing short of extraordinary.

Fred Agaba