Do We Ever Really Outgrow the Things We Loved as Kids?*

The other day, I stumbled across a roadside vendor selling balloons—big, bold, bright ones, wobbling in the breeze like they had someplace more exciting to be. For a moment, I stood there, transfixed. They seemed...alive. Like they had stories to tell, dreams to share. And I felt it—the tug of nostalgia so strong it almost swept me off my feet.  

Do you remember being that kid? Tugging at your mother’s wrapper, eyes locked on the balloon of your dreams, whispering, *“Please, just one.”* And when you finally got it, oh, the world felt light enough to float. Now, though? We pass by those same balloons and think, *“I’m too old for that.”*  

But here’s the thing—are we ever really too old? Or do we just tell ourselves that because “growing up” is supposed to mean trading joy for responsibilities, freedom for routines? Secretly, don’t we all long to run barefoot in the rain again, to splash in puddles without caring who’s watching? Don’t we wish we could sink our teeth into fresh, crispy "bofrot" without calculating carbs and guilt?  

Growing up in Ghana, childhood felt like magic dripped into the everyday—like how the orange sun sets behind a trotro and bathes the world in gold. It’s the slap of hands in ampe games, the sweet burst of mango juice running down your chin, the unrestrained laughter that bounces off tin roofs. It’s funny how those little moments have a way of sticking, quietly making a home in the corners of your heart.  

And even now, I carry them with me. Sometimes it’s the smell of roasted plantain curling through the air that takes me back to Saturday market days. Other times, it’s the sound of rain drumming on the zinc roof that whispers, *“Hey, remember when this was the highlight of your day?”*  

Maybe we don’t outgrow the things we loved as kids. Maybe we just bury them under layers of “adulthood.” But when we pause long enough, we find them waiting—like gentle reminders of who we used to be.  

So here’s my answer: no, we never really outgrow it. The magic? It’s still there. It’s in the way you smile at a balloon even when you don’t buy it. It’s in the off-key humming of cartoon theme songs as you wash dishes. It’s in the memories woven into every kente pattern, every sunset, every shared bowl of jollof rice.  

**Growing up isn’t about letting the magic go; it’s about learning to carry it differently. Next time I see a balloon, I just might buy one. Not because I need it, but because some days, it feels good to float.**