I was at a park the other day, doing that thing we adults do—sitting on a bench, “relaxing,” which mostly means scrolling through our phones while a low-grade anxiety simmers in the background like bad coffee. A few feet away, a little human, maybe four years old, was having an absolutely riveting conversation with a beetle.
She wasn’t just looking at it. She was conferring with it. She’d poke it gently with a twig, then lean in, head cocked, as if listening to its tiny beetle secrets. She’d gasp, giggle, and then ask it a follow-up question. This went on for a solid ten minutes. An eternity in kid-time, and a length of focus most adults reserve for a Netflix finale.
And I just sat there, watching, and a question started bubbling up in my brain, a question so simple and so profound it felt like it should have come with its own thunderclap:
When did I stop talking to beetles?
Seriously. When did the world stop being a place of infinite, fascinating mystery and start being… a list of tasks? When did I trade in my sense of wonder for a sense of responsibility? It feels like somewhere along the journey from there to here, we all graduated from a school we never signed up for, and the curriculum was designed to systematically strip away the very things that make being a little kid so amazing.
We didn’t just grow up. We got tamed.
The Explorer vs. The Librarian: A Tale of Two Brains
A kid’s brain and an adult’s brain operate on two fundamentally different systems. I’m convinced of it.
The kid’s brain is The Explorer. The Explorer’s prime directive is simple: GO. TOUCH. TASTE. ASK WHY. POKE IT WITH A STICK. SEE WHAT HAPPENS. The Explorer lives in a world that is a giant, interactive, ever-changing question mark. There are no dumb questions, only more things to discover. Failure is just a funny noise the experiment made.
The adult brain, on the other hand, is The Librarian. The Librarian’s job is not to discover, but to manage. It takes every new piece of information and meticulously files it away into a pre-existing, color-coded, cross-referenced system. The Librarian is obsessed with order, efficiency, and making sure everything is in its right place. Its favorite stamp is the big, red, “CASE CLOSED.” Its mortal enemy is the phrase, “I don’t know.”
The Explorer’s goal is to experience the world. The Librarian’s goal is to make sense of it—to put it in a box so it’s no longer a threat.
And here’s the tragedy: The Librarian is a bully. It spends years slowly, methodically, taking over the Explorer’s playground, paving it over, and building more shelves. It convinces you that the jungle gym is dangerous and the beetle has nothing important to say.
What follows is a map—a grown-up treasure map—to the Explorer’s lost territories, and a field guide for staging a quiet rebellion.
1. Creativity & Imagination
Kids treat imagination like oxygen—everywhere, free, and necessary. Adults treat imagination like expensive wine—to be brought out on special occasions, and only if it pairs well with the main course of productivity.
The Explorer’s Instinct: To create for the joy of it. To build a fortress out of pillows, to draw a purple sun, to invent a language that only you and the dog understand. The Explorer doesn’t ask, “Is this good?” It asks, “What else could this be?”
So, what did we forget?
- Imagination without limits
- Creating without fear of being judged
- Daydreaming freely
- Courage to be silly
The Librarian’s Policy: All creative endeavors must have an ROI. Is this a side hustle? Can we monetize this? Will it look good on my LinkedIn? The Librarian has a special file folder labeled “Hobbies,” and it’s mostly empty because nothing seems efficient enough to go in it.
Reclaiming the Art: Give the Explorer an hour a day and a messy corner to make useless, glorious things. The highest form of creative hygiene is making stuff that doesn’t need to exist—and doing it anyway. Write a terrible poem. Learn one chord on a ukulele. Cook a meal with no recipe. The goal isn’t a masterpiece; the goal is to remind the Librarian that not everything needs to be filed, categorized, or justified.
2. Emotions & Relationships
Kids treat emotions like weather: they roll in, they pour, they pass, and then it’s back to the playground. Adults treat emotions like lawsuits: carefully prepared, rarely filed, and often settled out of court.
The Explorer’s Instinct: If you’re sad, you cry. If you’re happy, you screech and run in circles. If you love someone, you tell them, probably five times in a row. Feelings are for feeling, and they are meant to be seen and heard.
What did we unlearn?
- Radical honesty about feelings
- Forgiveness that comes easily
- Expressing love without hesitation
- Asking for help openly
- Trusting others without cynicism
The Librarian’s Policy: Emotions are liabilities. They are messy, unprofessional, and inconvenient. They must be managed. The Librarian has a complex system of filters and sub-clauses for every feeling. Anger is re-labeled “frustration.” Sadness is “a bit tired.” Joy is “cautious optimism.”
Reclaiming the Art: The Explorer moves through feelings like a river; the Librarian stores them in labeled jars until the shelf collapses under the weight. We can relearn the ritual of small repairs: clear statements, fast forgiveness, frequent affection. Forgive quickly and move forward. Show affection freely (hugs, kind words, presence). Drop ego and accept help when needed. Approach people with kindness and curiosity. Love doesn’t need eloquence; it needs visibility. Tell someone how you feel, without a five-point summary of why it’s “valid.” The world doesn’t end. Usually, it begins.
3. Play, Joy & Presence
Kids don’t pursue joy; they trip over it constantly. A shiny rock, a weird-shaped cloud, the way a sprinkler makes a rainbow—these are all reasons for a full-blown celebration. Adults treat joy like a quarterly bonus: rare, conditional, and taxable.
The Explorer’s Instinct: To find wonder in the mundane. To be fully present in the experience of eating a cookie, watching a bug, or spinning in a circle until you fall down. Play is not an activity; it’s a state of mind.
What we forget:
- Playing just for fun
- Laughing wholeheartedly
- Living fully in the moment
- Celebrating small wins
- Being spontaneous
The Librarian’s Policy: Joy must be earned and scheduled. Fun is for the weekend, after the chores are done, and only if it’s productive fun (like “networking” or “exercise”). Spontaneity is a threat to the schedule. The Librarian’s calendar is a fortress against the intrusion of unplanned happiness.
Reclaiming the Art: Presence isn’t an app you download; it’s the radical act of doing one thing at a time with your whole attention. Play isn’t the opposite of work; it’s the rocket fuel for it. And small wins? They’re the breadcrumbs back to motivation. Cheer for them out loud. Celebrate the fact that you made a good cup of coffee. High-five yourself for getting out of bed. The Librarian will think it’s absurd, which is how you know it’s working.
4. Learning & Growth
To a kid, “I don’t know” is a starting line. It’s the most exciting phrase in the world, because it means something new is about to happen. To an adult, “I don’t know” can feel like a confession of failure.
The Explorer’s Instinct: The world is a buffet of things to learn, and the Explorer wants to try everything, without shame. Failure is just data. When you fall, you get up and say, “Okay, not like that.”
What we forget:
- Boundless curiosity
- Openness to learning without shame
- Experimenting without fear of failure
- Resilience — bouncing back quickly after setbacks
The Librarian’s Policy: Appear competent at all times. Stick to what you know. Trying new things is risky because you might look stupid, and “Looking Stupid” is a violation of Prime Directive #1. The Librarian would rather be confidently wrong than humbly learning.
Reclaiming the Art: Treat failure as a game. Give yourself permission to be terrible at something new. Learn an instrument and embrace the squeaks. Try a new language and butcher the pronunciation with pride. Curiosity is a muscle, not a mood. The more you use it, the more the Librarian’s fear of being a novice starts to sound like the pathetic whining it is.
5. The Lost Art of Unconditional Self-Acceptance
Kids start with the assumption that they’re allowed to exist exactly as they are. They don’t worry if their laugh is weird or their drawing is “wrong.” They are glorious, unapologetic weirdos. Adults treat self-acceptance like a VIP lounge with a dress code and a two-decade waitlist.
The Explorer’s Instinct: To be yourself, loudly and without apology. To sing off-key, dance like a maniac, and believe you are fundamentally awesome.
What we forget
- Loving ourselves as we are
- Not comparing ourselves constantly
- Simplicity in living
- Resting when our body needs it
The Librarian’s Policy: Constant self-critique is necessary for improvement. The Librarian maintains a detailed file on all your flaws, cross-referenced with a list of people who are better than you. This file is reviewed daily.
Reclaiming the Art: Authenticity isn’t a brand; it’s the profound relief of not having to act. Rest is not a moral failure; it’s maintenance. Simplicity is not laziness; it’s clarity. Your “weirdness” is not a bug; it’s your operating system’s most unique feature. Let it run.
Staging a Coup in Your Own Brain
So, what now? The point isn’t to fire the Librarian and run off to join the circus (though, honestly, it sounds kind of nice). The Librarian is useful. It pays the bills. It remembers birthdays. It keeps us from getting arrested. But it doesn’t have to be the sole dictator of our consciousness.
The goal is not to overthrow the Librarian, but to stage a quiet coup. It’s about giving the Explorer a seat at the table—or better yet, its own corner of the playground back.
Start small.
- Schedule 15 minutes of “Useless Time” every day. No phones, no tasks. Just sit, stare out a window, and let your mind do whatever it wants. The Librarian will hate it.
- Ask one “dumb” question a day. At work, at home, to yourself. “Why do we do it this way?” “What if we did the opposite?”
- Go on a “Wonder Walk.” Walk for 10 minutes with the sole purpose of noticing things you’ve never noticed before. The texture of a brick, the way a weed is growing through the pavement.
- Do something you’re bad at. And enjoy the feeling of not being an expert.
The world is still a place of infinite, fascinating mystery. The beetles are still there, waiting to tell us their secrets. We just have to remember how to get quiet, lean in, and listen. We have to give the Explorer in our heads a little room to breathe.
Because the tragedy of growing up isn’t that we get older. It’s that we forget how to be new.
