Children are not the kind of things I would associate myself with. (The fact that I call them things probably proves that.) But I admire children. I admire them so much and wonder why I stopped at acting like them as I grew up. I don’t mean to question why I don’t wear diapers or why I don’t cry my eyes when I don’t get my way anymore, but there is so much more to a child than just immaturity and naivety.

Children have hope. They believe in their imaginations and think they have the power to do anything they could possibly want. They watch Disney movies and believe that they too, can become a princess. They learn to play chess and think they have become geniuses. They watch The Sound of Music and pretend to be the star of a live concert in the shower. They perceive themselves as the most extraordinary things to ever exist and they have no idea how right they are. And we, as adults, ruin them.

We acknowledge their childhood dreams of becoming a fashion designer or an astronaut throughout the childhood years and tell them they’re the smartest and most intelligent child in all of humanity. But as they grow up, the incredibility of these dreams are suddenly said to be impractical or unwise. Adults start to expect a serious answer and won’t stop nagging till you have one. And if you ask why the career of your choice is not considered a serious answer, you’re scolded and called childish for not having a more practical answer.

When I was seven, I wanted to be an artist. The idea of spending my life in an apron with colourful stains holding a messy paint palette and having two paintbrushes tucked behind my ears seemed an ideal way to live. My love for art was so much more than just a casual hobby and I was lucky to have had enough materials to feed my passion. I drew and painted to my heart’s content and showed everything I made to everyone I knew. And everyone praised me and said “What a beautiful drawing!” or “You’re such a great artist!” and my heart fluttered every time as I grew the biggest smile on my face.

And so I told people I wanted to be an artist. That I wanted to spend the rest of my life doing what it is that I truly love. But people have other plans in mind. They say, and know one knows where they get their opinions from, artists don’t make very good money. They tell you artists don’t work in today’s economy and a career in the arts isn’t practical. They suggest you consider being a doctor or a lawyer and tell you to stop painting. But they don’t realize that, as a seven year old, you don’t care about money and you probably don’t know what economy means. You’re just doing what you love solely for the reason that you love doing it and you don’t understand why practicality is necessary when you’re happy.

And so I stopped painting. I bundled up my watercolours and paintbrushes in a box and stored it in the back of a cupboard. And most adults would tell you that someday you grow out of your silly childhood hobbies and that you made the right decision by throwing away your painted seashell collection or recycling your old drawing books.

But the truth is, we never really grow out of or completely forget anything. You simply learn to think the way an adult is expected to and distract yourself from your childhood dreams by paying you taxes or washing your car. We put on the mask of adulthood and tell ourselves that this is the proper way to live life and lose the sense of hope and belief in oneself we had as children.

And no one should have the right to blame you because not every child was born wearing a stethoscope or holding a microscope and adults need to realize that pursuing a career that requires an uninterested or forced upon skill doesn’t make you any happier.