Guided Journal Entry #8

At some point, we stopped finger-painting and started filing taxes, and honestly? I think that was a mistake. Remember when you used to lose hours making up dance routines, narrating Barbie soap operas, or building elaborate stick forts like you were training for a post-apocalyptic HGTV special? That wasn't wasted time- that was you, unfiltered. Before the productivity cult got you. Before your calendar looked like a game of Tetris, and joy got shoved into the "maybe Saturday" column, right between laundry and existential dread. Somewhere along the way, we got the message that fun is for kids and adulthood is for suffering quietly with a reusable water bottle and mild back pain.

But what if the stuff that lit us up as kid wasn't just fluff? What if it was a neon sign pointing toward who we actually are- before we learned how to tone it down and "be realistic"?

Today, we're flipping off the grind culture for a second and reconnecting with that messy, passionate, possibly-bedazzled version of you who knew how to feel things. The one who wasn't worried about being "good at it" or turning it into a side hustle. They were just doing the thing because it made time disappear.

And guess what? That version of you isn’t gone. They're just buried under emails and low-grade burnout.

Let's get into it.

Remember when time used to disappear- not because you were doom-scrolling or stuck in back-to-back meetings- but because you were just in it? Fully immersed. Covered in glitter glue, digging in the dirt, dancing in your room like you were headlining a world tour for an audience of stuffed animals. You weren't doing it for the likes, or money, or LinkedIn endorsements. You were doing it because it made you feel alive.

Somewhere along the way, adulthood showed up with its full inboxes and sensible shoes, and told us there wasn't time for that anymore. That our passions had to be productive or profitable or "mature." And so we shelved them. We outgrew joy like it was a phase.

But what if those moments- the ones where time vanished and your soul lit up- weren't just childhood fluff? What if they were breadcrumbs? Little glowing hints about what still matters to you?

Today's prompt is "Think back to when you were a child. What activities or hobbies made you lose track of time? How can you incorporate those passions into your adult life?" It's a chance to remember who you were before the world told you who to be. So grab your journal, find a quiet spot, and let's revisit that magic.

So what did you used to lose hours doing before capitalism and adult responsibilities came in like a wrecking ball? And no, “staring at the ceiling fan dramatically” doesn’t count—though, respect. Maybe you were the kid who doodled on every surface that wasn’t nailed down—textbooks, jeans, your sibling’s homework. That artistic itch? It doesn’t just evaporate with age. Bust out a sketchbook, try digital art, or sign up for a painting class where no one cares if it looks like a Pinterest fail. Or maybe you were the architectural genius of couch forts and Lego empires. That love for building? It still counts—even if now it looks like IKEA hacks, home DIYs, or crafting weird little models while blasting a nostalgic playlist.

Were you the tiny author scribbling epic adventures or angsty poems about your goldfish? Cool, because that storyteller is still in there. Start a blog, write a messy short story, or let yourself fall back into journaling without worrying if it’s “productive.” If you were the feral child who was always up a tree, covered in grass stains, and one mosquito bite away from chaos—maybe your joy lives in hiking, gardening, or just touching grass regularly without making it a chore. Loved video games? Guess what—you don’t have to “outgrow” them. Whether it’s designing your own, streaming just for the hell of it, or carving out time to play guilt-free, joy is still joy—even if it’s pixelated. And if music was your thing—whether it was singing into a hairbrush or playing an instrument like you were auditioning for a garage band that never rehearsed—reconnect with that. Pick up an old instrument, make a playlist that feels like middle school, or find a local open mic and do it badly on purpose.

The point isn’t to monetize it or be amazing at it. The point is: your younger self knew what lit you up. So maybe it’s time to stop waiting for permission—and just go light that match again.

Alright, so now that we’ve officially called BS on the idea that childhood passions should be boxed up and stored next to your old Beanie Babies and your collection of participation ribbons, let’s rewind the tape a little further. Step one is all about remembering—not just what you did, but who you were before adulthood handed you a planner, a tight jaw, and a mild anxiety disorder that now doubles as your personality trait.

Think back to what used to make hours vanish like socks in the dryer. Was it climbing trees like you were training for the squirrel Olympics? Making up dramatic soap opera plotlines for your stuffed animals that would put "Grey’s Anatomy" to shame? Drawing fire-breathing dragons in the margins of your math homework because fractions were clearly not your calling?

That wasn’t just “kid stuff.” That was your brain, your soul, your whole unfiltered self going, YES—more of this, please.

What were you obsessed with before the world handed you the “realistic” checklist? Before success was measured in KPIs and you learned the word “networking” (and flinched every time someone said it)? Was it storytelling? Adventure? Puzzles? Music? Moving your body without turning it into a workout? Quiet creativity, full-blown chaos, or something in between?

This is the part where you unearth, not evaluate. You’re not judging whether you were “good” at it. You’re not editing your childhood joy through an adult lens that’s been fogged up by expectations and spreadsheets. You're just getting curious. Because that tiny, gremlin, glitter-sticky version of you had it figured out—at least when it came to joy, to presence, to flow. They weren’t optimizing their hobbies for Instagram or trying to make a brand out of finger painting. They were just being—weird, wonderful, and wildly alive.

So give them the mic for a minute. Let them remind you what it felt like to do something just for the love of it. That’s the beginning. That’s step one. And yeah, it might feel silly or nostalgic or like you're trying to summon a ghost—but sometimes that ghost holds the damn blueprint.

And once you’ve dusted off those memories—cracked open the nostalgia vault and peeked in like you’re defusing a glitter bomb—take it one step further: how did it feel to be in that zone?

Like… really feel it. Was there this weird calm that washed over you when you were fully immersed—so focused that the rest of the world kind of blurred out, like background noise on mute? Did it make you feel free? Energized? Did it light up your brain like a pinball machine in the best possible way? Or maybe it made you feel safe—like, “I can exist exactly as I am in this moment and no one is asking me to be smaller, quieter, or more productive.”

Maybe it was the one time your overthinking brain shut the hell up and just let you exist—not as a performer or a problem-solver or a people-pleaser, but as a full human being doing something you genuinely loved.

Those feelings? Yeah, they’re still around. They didn’t disappear just because you started paying bills or now own multiple tote bags “for errands.” They’re still valid. Still available. Still tucked somewhere underneath your daily chaos, your mental tabs, and probably a crumpled receipt for something you forgot you bought.

The thing is, joy doesn’t just evaporate—it gets buried under expectations. And this? This is your chance to dig. No pressure. No gold star. No need to “make it count.” Just a moment. A journal. And some curious self-inventory about what made your soul do a happy dance before life told it to sit down and act normal.

Because spoiler alert: your soul never wanted normal. It wanted wonder. And that feeling? You’re allowed to chase it again. Hell, you’re allowed to demand it.

Okay, now that you’ve unearthed your childhood greatest hits—complete with grass stains, glitter glue, and fashion choices that can only be described as “chaotic good”—it’s time to put on your detective hat. But not the trench-coat-and-magnifying-glass kind. No, we’re talking emotionally intelligent sleuthing. Think: Sherlock Holmes with feelings.

Because beneath every cardboard fort, treehouse escapade, or impromptu living room concert was a need being met. A real, human, soul-level need. So take a step back and look at the patterns—squint at them like you're trying to read your old diary without cringing.

What did those activities actually give you? Was it a sense of freedom—doing something entirely on your own terms, without rules, timers, or that sinking sense you were supposed to be somewhere else? Was it pure creative expression, where your brain could go full gremlin and just make stuff without worrying about whether it was “good”?

Maybe it was the joy of problem-solving—figuring out how to keep your blanket fort from collapsing or inventing entire games with rules only you understood. And let’s be honest, that hit different than trying to troubleshoot a broken Wi-Fi connection while your microwave screams at you.

Or maybe what you were chasing was connection. Not just with people, but with ideas, with nature, with something bigger than yourself. Or independence—a way to say, “This is mine. I made this. I chose this.” Or maybe it was just a solid, wholesome dopamine rush that didn’t come from caffeine, TikTok, or finally getting to inbox zero.

The point is: this wasn’t random chaos. It was you crafting a blueprint for joy before you even knew what the hell that meant. So as you dig through the highlights reel of your tiny, weird, brilliant self—start mapping those themes. Because those core needs? They didn’t disappear. You just got better at ignoring them.

But not today. Today, we notice. We name. We give those themes a seat at the table—because they’ve been trying to get your attention this whole damn time.

Because spoiler alert: those weren’t just random hobbies. They weren’t just what you did to kill time before dinner or keep busy on weekends. They were clues. Glorious, sticky-fingered, neon-bright clues about what made you feel something real. Joy. Curiosity. Autonomy. Presence. Wonder. All those big, soul-level values hidden inside messy play and imagination-fueled chaos.

And the values behind them? They still matter. Or at least—they could, if we’d stop locking them away in the dusty childhood vault like they’re too immature to survive the adult world. Newsflash: they are not immature. They’re essential. They’re what make us feel alive under all the layers of burnout, budgeting, and pretending to care about group texts.

So now’s your chance to connect the dots. Zoom out a little. Look at your childhood passions like a tangled constellation of glitter glue, sidewalk chalk, and late-night LEGO builds. What patterns do you see? What vibes show up over and over again? Maybe it’s curiosity. Creativity. Solitude. Movement. Collaboration. Maybe it’s a craving for freedom, or structure, or a place to put all your weird, beautiful thoughts.

More importantly—what’s still calling to you? What’s whispering underneath the noise of responsibilities, unread emails, and yet another conversation about what’s for dinner? What have you been craving, but convincing yourself you don’t “have time” for or “shouldn’t care about anymore”?

Listen, your inner child may be wearing light-up sneakers and covered in popsicle juice, but don’t let the aesthetic fool you—they’ve got serious grown-up wisdom. They were tuned in before life taught you how to tune out. Before you learned to prioritize what was “useful” over what was meaningful. And they’ve been patiently waiting for you to stop scrolling long enough to remember.

So let’s listen. Let’s reconnect. Let’s stop ghosting the parts of ourselves that actually knew how to live.

Alright, so you’ve connected the dots, spotted the themes, and possibly realized you were a tiny genius who understood joy better than your current burnout-riddled, calendar-worshipping self. Cute for past you. Mildly humbling for present you. But here’s the million-dollar question (don’t worry, it’s rhetorical, no actual dollars involved): How do you bring that magic back—without turning it into a productivity project, a personal brand, or the latest addition to your overachiever Pinterest board?

Because here’s the deal: just because you’re not eight anymore doesn’t mean you’ve lost your right to do things purely for the hell of it. You can still get weird with a glue stick. You can still build stuff with zero practical value. You can still spend a suspicious amount of time outside pretending you’re the main character in a whimsical indie film. The world might not hand out stickers for it, but your nervous system will thank you.

The key is translation—figuring out how to sneak those old passions into your adult life without setting off your internal “this feels frivolous” alarm. And no, you don’t have to quit your job and move into an artist commune (unless that’s your thing—in which case, carry on). I’m talking bite-sized joy. Little moments you can actually fit in between doing laundry and spiraling about the state of the world.

Start small. Like, ten minutes small. Doodle in the margins of your planner. Take a walk and let your brain off the leash—no podcasts, no emails, just vibes. Write a journal entry like it’s a scene from the sitcom version of your childhood. Buy some modeling clay and make something wildly useless and deeply satisfying. Host a theme night with your friends where everyone shows up as their 8-year-old selves and eats snacks shaped like dinosaurs.

Hell, join a class. Take an improv workshop, sign up for a painting night, go to that weirdly specific book club that only reads fantasy novels about sentient plants. There are entire communities of adult humans out there trying to reconnect with joy, and they’re just as weird and wonderful as you.

And listen closely: you don’t have to be good at it. You don’t need to monetize it. You don’t need to make a Reel about it. You’re allowed to do something badly just because it makes your insides feel a little bit more alive. That’s not regression. That’s healing.

The world will keep spinning whether you knit a lopsided scarf, start a playlist of songs you loved in 2002, or build a Lego village in your living room. But you might start to feel more like yourself again.

And here’s your official permission slip—written in metaphorical crayon and signed by your inner child: you do not have to be good at it. Read that again. Let it marinate. Because somewhere along the line, joy got hijacked by perfectionism, and suddenly every hobby had to have an audience, a monetization plan, and a matching aesthetic.

But seriously—this is not a talent show. No one’s holding up scorecards. There’s no gold star for “best adult doing a whimsical thing.” No one’s going to come in and say, “Oh sorry, your knitting’s uneven, you’re banned from happiness.” It’s not about impressing anyone or building a “personal brand.” It’s about you, doing something that lights up your insides a little—even if it looks ridiculous from the outside.

This isn’t about productivity. It’s not about outcomes. It’s not even about “getting better at it.” It’s about remembering that things like fun, curiosity, creativity, and play aren’t extra—they’re essential. They are human needs. Right up there with water, memes, sunlight, and avoiding people who say “let’s circle back” like it’s a threat.

And joy? Real joy? It’s messy. It’s a little weird. It often involves glitter, bad karaoke, or making a fool of yourself in the best possible way. But it also brings you back to yourself. It softens the edges. It makes life feel a little less like a to-do list and a little more like something worth waking up for.

So go do something utterly pointless. Finger-paint with no plan. Dance in your kitchen to music you’d be embarrassed to admit you still love. Write a haiku about your dog. Start a project you have zero intention of finishing. Let it be imperfect. Let it be yours.

Because if it makes you feel even a tiny bit more alive? That’s not wasting time. That’s reclaiming it.

That’s the assignment.

Okay, you’ve done the emotional excavation, uncovered the golden nuggets of childhood joy, and maybe even caught yourself googling “adult piano lessons near me” while spiraling through a playlist of 2000s nostalgia. Love that for you. Truly. You’re out here reconnecting with your original programming—the version of you that knew how to have fun without overthinking it or turning it into a LinkedIn post.

Now comes the real magic: the follow-through. Not the performative New Year’s resolution version where you spend $48 on a bullet journal you’ll abandon by February. We’re not doing that. This is about setting a realistic, shame-free, obligation-light intention—something small enough to actually do, but meaningful enough to matter.

You don’t need a five-year plan. You don’t need a mood board or an accountability buddy or a new identity centered around “becoming a person who takes improv classes now.” You just need to say: Hey, I’m going to do this one small thing because it brings me joy. That’s it. That’s the bar. And it’s deliciously low.

Pick one passion. Just one. Something little-you would be thrilled to see you trying again. Finger painting. Roller skating. Singing in the car like you’re headlining Coachella. Reading fantasy novels in bed with snacks. It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. It just has to make you feel like you’re slipping joy into your schedule like emotional contraband—smuggled between doomscrolling, dishwashing, and pretending to understand your insurance.

And here’s your compass, your vibe check, your joy GPS: How do you want to feel while doing it? Playful? Creative? Free? Like your soul just got handed a juice box and told recess was back on? That feeling? That’s your north star. Follow it. Chase it like it owes you money.

You don’t have to fix your whole life. You just have to sneak a little joy back into it—one doodle, one walk, one weird little hobby at a time.

That’s the beginning. That’s enough. And honestly? That’s where the magic happens.

So let’s make it official. Not just a passing thought or a “yeah, I should do that sometime” that vanishes into the mental clutter alongside forgotten passwords and half-written grocery lists. Nope. Grab a pen. Write it down. Say it out loud to your houseplants, your cat, your reflection in the microwave—whoever’s available. Because this is it. This is the moment where your inner child stops being just a wistful memory and officially gets a seat at the grown-up table.

This isn’t about pretending your life is suddenly whimsical and unburdened. It’s about making space—just enough space—for joy to squeeze in next to your deadlines and that suspicious pile of laundry you keep ignoring. It’s about saying, "Hey, adulting is exhausting, but I can still do one small thing that makes my soul exhale."

So pick your thing. Your one little act of rebellion against the idea that joy has to be earned or scheduled months in advance. Maybe it’s painting badly. Or dancing terribly. Or taking a class you have no business being in but you show up anyway because it makes you laugh. Maybe it’s just giving yourself ten blessed minutes a day to not be useful and just be you.

Let’s set the intention and see what happens.

Worst case? You feel slightly ridiculous and your houseplant judges you. Which, honestly, is kind of charming.

Best case? You reconnect with something real. Something you forgot was still in you. Something that makes you feel like yourself again—but more rooted, more awake, more you.

And honestly? That’s the kind of ridiculous we could all use more of.

And there we have it, friends. You’ve time-traveled through your childhood memories, decoded the secret language of your old obsessions, and maybe even dusted off a long-forgotten dream involving sidewalk chalk or interpretive dance. You've gone full emotional archaeologist—and what you dug up? That stuff matters. Because joy isn’t something we’re supposed to grow out of. It’s something we’re meant to grow with. And if your younger self could see you now—doing the damn work, setting intentions, sneaking in tiny pockets of wonder between dentist appointments and existential spirals—they’d probably high-five you. Or throw glitter at you. Or both. So here's your challenge, your invitation, your neon-flashing nudge from the universe: bring one of those passions back to life. Not to be productive. Not to make it make sense. Just because it feels good. Because joy, play, and curiosity aren’t a luxury—they’re a lifeline. And you’re allowed to grab hold of them, even on a Tuesday.

If this episode gave you something to think about—or laugh about, or cry about in the nostalgic section of Target—go ahead and share it with someone who needs a little nudge to reconnect with their inner chaos goblin too.

Don’t forget to rate, review, and subscribe to Shrink Wrapped wherever you get your podcasts—Spotify, Apple, Amazon, iHeartRadio, or the O’Neil Counseling app. Speaking of which, hop into the app to connect with other listeners, join the conversation, and maybe even share your own childhood passion you're bringing back. (Yes, macaroni art counts.)

Thanks for pushing play on Shrink Wrapped. Pop in next week when we're DSM diving into the mental adventure that is Borderline Personality Disorder.

And remember: You’re doing better than you think. Now go do something completely pointless and wildly joyful.

You’ve earned it.