What a box of old photos reminded me about joy, girlhood, and the version of me I miss most.

We’re having some work done at home, and the bedroom that’s slowly turned into a storage room — the one we always keep the door shut on to avoid the chaos — finally needed tackling.

It was a Saturday afternoon. Rarely do I get a completely free day, so I took it as a sign. The golden opportunity to get stuck in.

I spent hours rummaging through piles of things we’d been holding onto for years — boxes of old school papers, mismatched wires, and of course, what every Asian household has tucked away somewhere: photo albums.

Stacks and stacks of them, dating back to mum’s childhood.

Being the reminiscent soul I am, I sat down with albums on my lap, surrounded by clutter, and began flipping through page after page. It had been a while since I let myself look back like that, but somehow, it felt like the right moment.

Then I found it.
An album filled with pictures of me at age seven.
The park day with the cousins and a holiday I have hardly an memories of.

I smiled instantly — I remembered that camera. A little pink digital one that mum bought me. I was obsessed. That album was basically a collection of my first ever selfies: a missing-tooth grin, an uneven fringe, cheeks that took up half my face. And behind every photo, this wild, unfiltered joy.

No fear. No second-guessing.
Just a girl who loved hugging her mum, planting seeds in the garden, and getting excited over the smallest things. No voice in her head questioning her choices.

No weight. Just wonder.

I don’t think I ever really cared what I looked like. Even well into high school. Overgrown eyebrows, hand-me-down jumpers, the kind of chubby cheeks that made aunties pinch them at weddings — I never looked in the mirror too long. And the strangest thing of all?
I was so happy.

When I looked at those pictures of little Zara — 7-year-old me — I felt… confused.
When did she go?
When did I stop beaming just because I existed?
When did I start carrying so much?

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking:
"Zara, that’s just growing up".
Of course we’re not meant to stay the same. Of course life gets heavier.

We know more now — about the world, about people, about disappointment. We lose things. We carry grief, heartbreak, rejection, messy friendships, shifting families, financial stress… the list writes itself.

But isn’t that a little bit heartbreaking?
That joy that came so easily becomes something we have to fight for?

I get why parents say they wish their kids could stay little forever — innocent and unaware.
Because I kind of wish that for myself, too.

I’m 24 now, and I have a 7-year-old niece — the brightest light in any room.

She's the kind of girl who laughs until she hiccups, breaks into dance with no warning, tells stories with the most animated expressions. She’s magnetic. Missing teeth and all.

And when I look at her, I see me.
The me I was before the world got to me.

And oh, how I wish I could protect her from everything I’ve since learned.
From the pain I can’t unfeel. From the doubts that creep in late at night.
From the heaviness that sometimes replaces joy without asking.

I hope she knows — even when she’s older — that joy is still hers to keep.
That her smile is her superpower.
That she doesn’t need to shrink or harden or question herself to survive.
I hope the world doesn’t dim her. But if it does, I hope she always remembers how to turn the light back on.

Sometimes I wish that little girl would come back.

That 7-year-old me would show up at my door, drain my social battery, then leave me laughing until my stomach hurts. She’d tell me to stop taking everything so seriously. She’d beg me to play outside. She’d remind me that life isn’t just about pushing through.

She’d say, “You used to laugh like that all the time. What happened?”

I don’t know, honestly.
But I miss her.

And I hope she comes back soon.

But while we try to find her again, we’ll start by picking up the things she loved.

Baking more, for a start.

Becoming an adult has this strange way of convincing you out of the things that once made you feel alive. It’s like we put our joys in a box, tape it shut, and label it “too old for this now.”

But really — when are you ever too old to be that happy?
That unfiltered?
That full of life?

I guess when you’re a kid, you don’t have to justify your joy.
You’re allowed to laugh loud. To spin in circles. To talk too much.
And no one asks why — they just say, “She’s such a happy kid.”

Your energy is accepted without question.
Your light doesn’t have to explain itself.

Well, I think it’s time we open that box.
Because inside each of us is still that kid — the one who was led by curiosity, who didn’t overthink everything, who didn’t second-guess her joy.

These past few years? They’ve been hard. I won’t sugarcoat it.
Family abroad. Personal lessons that hit unexpectedly. Friendships that feel more distant than they used to.

So maybe now more than ever, we have to rely on that younger version of ourselves — the one who didn’t need much to have a good time.
The one who found joy in the smallest, simplest things.

Because she’s still there.
And she’s still got a lot to teach us.