I'm 28 years old and my band-aids have Elsa on them

The cashier scans my toothpaste, my oat milk, my migraine pills. Then, she pauses at the box of band-aids, turning it slightly in her hand before looking up at me. Elsa, Anna and Olaf staring expectantly from the package .

“These for your kid?” she asks, smiling.

I briefly think about lying. It would be easy—just a nod, a casual “yeah.” Instead, I say, “Nope. They’re for me.”

She stares blankly at me, gauging me, then chuckles in that way people do when they don’t know whether to find you endearing or just strange. I pay for my things and leave, but the moment lingers. Why is it that something as small as a cartoon band-aid needs an explanation?

As children, we are applauded for whimsy. We are encouraged to wear bright colors, dream of impossible things, and cover ourselves in stickers, glitter, and Disney characters. Our notebooks have unicorns on them. Our socks don’t have to match. We pick the sparkly light-up sneakers because they make us happy. And society lets us—because that’s what childhood is supposed to be: a place of unfiltered joy.

Then, at some invisible turning point, the rules change. Suddenly, joy must be practical. Band-aids must match your skin tone, as if healing should be discreet. Clothes must be “age-appropriate.” Your notebooks must be sleek, neutral, and “professional.” The world stops celebrating imagination and starts rewarding conformity. The same qualities that made you special as a child—curiosity, playfulness, the desire to see magic in small things—become things you must shed in order to be taken seriously.

But I refuse.

I refuse to let go of the things that make life feel magical and silly and fun. I refuse to believe that I must trade in wonder for monotony. I refuse to accept that in order to be an adult I have to let go of my imagination, my desires and my metaphorical fairy dust.

There was a time when I ran everywhere. Not for exercise, not because I was late—just because running was fun, my childhood friends will never let me forget how I used to frolic around screaming “I’M RUNNING LIKE A GAZELLE!!!!!!!!! I AM FREE!!!!!”. I climbed trees and ruled secret kingdoms from the branches. I collected shiny rocks, pressed flowers into books, screamed when I saw a butterfly. I didn’t care if my socks matched. I didn’t care if my clothes made sense. I just was.

Then, slowly, I was forced to learn civility. I learned to sit still. To speak softly. To only run for cardio and in a nice, well-oiled treadmill. To walk past squirrels in the park without stopping to watch them play. I was told to keep my emotions at a reasonable volume, to not be too much, too weird, too child-like.

Here’s the kicker though, I have never been the best at doing what I’m supposed to. So I learned, but then I didn’t. I was told what to do and how to behave, but I seemed to have forgotten. I lost myself in adulthood, in practical, stolen moments of joy. But, by some magical happenstance, I found magic again. And I simply do not care anymore. I know people think I’m childish, I take it as a compliment. Children are wonderful, they are full of energy, of possibilities, they express themselves in ways we cannot. I am proud to be called childish.

At five years old, climbing a tree is adorable. At ten, it’s an adventure. At thirty, it’s concerning. Why? Why does the world decide that joy should be rationed? That at a certain point, a woman collecting tiny porcelain cats is no longer charming, just sad? That loving unicorns is fine when you’re six, ironic when you’re sixteen, but embarrassing when you’re thirty?

And all of the critiques are almost always aimed towards women, aren’t they? Girls are told to tone it down, to be less, to grow up faster. A man can love his sports team with religious fervor, collect action figures well into adulthood, and nobody bats an eye. But if a woman dares to love something too much—if she decorates her office with pink, if she gets excited about Taylor Swift newest album, if she loves a romance book, if she laughs too loudly at something silly—she is infantilized. We are told our joy is frivolous, unserious, unworthy. We are allowed to like things, but only if we like them in the right way, quietly, tastefully, maturely.

Well, fuck that.

I refuse to perform adulthood in muted tones just because the world finds girlhood embarrassing. I refuse to shrink my excitement into something palatable for them. I will continue to love sparkles and stickers and stuffed animals. I will wear pink if I feel like it. I will squeal over a tiny frog on the sidewalk. I will be too much—too happy, too excited, too whimsical—because joy is not a weakness, and it sure as hell isn’t something to grow out of.

People say the world dulls, that magic fades and that illusions end. That’s the story we’re given, an inevitable sad ending, the moral of every tale. We are Wendy, returning from Neverland, tucking away our fairy dust and pretending we never knew how to fly.

But here’s the secret: The world does not get less magical as we age—we are just conditioned to stop seeing it. We are told to put away our light-up sneakers, our cartoon band-aids, our glitter pens and knick knacks, because adulthood is supposed to be serious business. But I don’t want an adulthood that is all gray suits and skin-tone band-aids. I want a life where I can scream when I see a particularly fat squirrel. I want to eat ice cream while running barefoot on the beach. I want to do cartwheels every time my feet touch a single blade of grass. I want to play mermaids and pirouette around in the pool. I want my very adult, very professional lawyer job and my pink Hello Kitty planner.

I am 28 years old, and when I get a papercut, I reach for a band-aid with Elsa on it. Because why shouldn’t healing come with a little bit of magic?

Serious injuries require serious medical care.