Blossoming

May 8, 2025

When I was eight or nine, I'd spend my entire allowance on one thing: stuffed animals. Dogs, bunnies, bears, even a brontosaurus named Jeremy. As soon as I had enough saved, I’d get the next one. Each night, I’d arrange them around me in a soft nest and snuggle in. By morning, of course, they’d be scattered across the floor like casualties in a plush explosion, but as I'd put them back on the pillow, I'd imagine they were happy to see me. I remember the feeling exactly: This is something I love. Simple. Formative.

So when I had kids, one of the things I looked forward to most was discovering what they would love. I knew it wouldn’t be what I loved, because they were them, not me.

My daughter Ella, for example, loved ants. In our backyard there’s a large rock that shelters a network of ant colonies. Every spring, as soon as the ground thawed, she’d be out there, crouched down, checking on the tiny creatures. Which tunnels were busy? Had new hills formed? What were they carrying? Ella's affection for those ants was every bit as passionate as my love had been for Jeremy and the rest of my animal friends... minus the cuddles, of course.

What we love is a kind of map that shows us to ourselves. And it doesn’t stop when we grow up... or at least, it shouldn’t. It’s easy, as adults, to live in service of what others need and forget that we’re still forming, eternally unfolding, and we need to feed that process. So here’s a little reminder: No matter your age, keep your radar tuned to what you love. Make space for it in your environment. Surround yourself with it, even. Do it not because it’s indulgent, but because it’s you.

—Deb