I just finished watching “The Witches” on HBO, and it was like unearthing a time capsule filled with memories—some warm and fuzzy, others a bit horrifying. This movie terrorized me as a kid in the ’90s, but now, that fear has softened into a strange kind of affection. It’s a comforting relic of my childhood, filled with iconic moments: the Grand High Witch, her elaborate prosthetics, those outrageous wigs, and the green fumes swirling ominously as children transform into mice. It was my gateway into the horror genre, a genre that has shaped much of my taste and perspective.

I first encountered this film during a blissfully uncomplicated time—when my mom would bring home Betamax tapes, Chocomallows (she buys those chocolate-covered marshmallow cookies in wholesale), and an eclectic mix of other goodies that always made me and my siblings happy. After school, I’d sink into those tapes, often while juggling a game of “Super Mario Brothers.” Who needed fresh air and sunlight when you had the magic of storytelling to immerse yourself in? Horror films, with all their thrills and chills, practically raised me. “Jason Goes to Hell,” “Leprechaun,” “Candyman,” and “Hellraiser” were my after-school specials. It’s a wonder I turned out even remotely functional.

And then there was my aunt, whom I lovingly called ‘Nanay.’ Whenever I misbehaved, she would threaten to unleash the Grand High Witch on me. Nothing instills a sense of dread quite like the thought of being turned into a rodent by a flamboyantly terrifying witch. It was her way of keeping me in line, a bizarre but effective form of discipline.

Now, looking back, I realize those were simpler times. Adulting has kicked my ass in ways I never anticipated. Who knew that childhood was a golden age of blissful ignorance? Back then, my emotions were straightforward—like a light switch: on or off, no dimmer in between. I often forget just how uncomplicated life was. Now, it feels like the universe has decided to slap me with reality checks on a regular basis. Sure, I’m “tougher” now—wiser and fiercely independent—but I’m also more jaded and less content. The things that once brought me joy seem to slip through my fingers like sand.

Even Christmas, which used to be filled with magic and wonder, has lost its sparkle. I find myself reflecting on why that is. Is it the weight of expectations? The relentless march of time? I’ve developed this theory that perhaps humans aren’t meant to live for a century. Life expectancy should be short and sweet, like a candy bar consumed in one sitting—delicious but fleeting. Most older folks I know seem to carry an air of resignation, as if they’ve exhausted every drop of joy life has to offer. It makes me wonder if we’re meant to embrace our inner children—indulgent, foolish, and carefree—rather than conform to a checklist of societal norms that dictate what happiness should look like.

Growing up often feels like a trade-off, exchanging genuine joy for a sense of numbness. Social standards weigh heavily on us, until one day we wake up wondering where our old selves have gone. If I could rewind the clock on maturity, I’d jump at the chance. Now that I’ve tasted both childhood and adulthood, I find myself yearning for the carefree bliss of being a kid again. I don’t want to be tougher or wiser; I simply want to find joy again in the little things. I want to be able to say “I don’t care,” and truly mean it, free from the shackles of societal expectations.

Yet here I am, navigating this complex circus called life. In many ways, I’m still that little kid, fearful of making mistakes, terrified of being turned into a mouse. And honestly, I’d much rather be human than scurry around looking for crumbs. As I reflect on this wild ride, I can’t help but long for those simpler days when my biggest worry was whether I’d have time to play Super Mario after dinner. It’s a bittersweet realization, but perhaps it’s in this longing that we find a path back to ourselves—a reminder that happiness is often found in the simplest of moments, waiting to be rediscovered.