Call Me Crazy

 

(but come here, I want to show you something)

 

Okay, come here.

Over here.

Behind the swings.

I want to tell you something.

 

Don’t worry, it’s not a secret-secret.

It’s just… something I noticed when I was little

that I thought everyone else noticed too —

but it turns out they didn’t.

 

So come closer.

This is good.

 

When I was a kid, I used to think maybe I was crazy.

Not the scary kind of crazy —

the “why is everyone else acting like this makes sense?” kind.

 

Because school told us all these things were important —

facts, dates, charts, rules —

and everyone pretended to care.

 

Pretended.

 

But outside, on the recess yard, nobody cared.

Not once did I hear anyone say,

“Wow, what a compelling spelling list this week!”

 

We cared about feelings.

Who liked who.

Who sat where.

Who looked sad.

Who switched kickball teams.

Who wore a scrunchie someone actually noticed.

 

Oh God — the scrunchie.

Yes, that mattered.

If my scrunchie matched my outfit

and ONE person saw it?

Day made.

Ten out of ten.

Put it in the yearbook.

 

But ask me the capital of Nebraska?

Please.

I forgot it before the pencil left the paper.

 

And I thought:

Am I crazy?

Why don’t these things matter to me

the way they’re supposed to?

 

But then I’d go outside

and watch kids running full speed into life —

laughing, screaming, feeling everything with their whole bodies

because they didn’t have the words yet —

and I’d think:

 

Oh.

Maybe I’m not the crazy one.

Maybe the rest of them forgot how to care about the right things.

 

Kids feel everything first.

They don’t pretend.

They don’t care about looking smart.

They care about feeling alive.

 

And that made more sense to me

than anything I ever learned from a worksheet.

 

Because here’s the thing:

if I care about something — really care —

I become terrifyingly smart.

Focused.

Clear.

Almost impossible to stop.

 

I once diagnosed myself with a rare autoimmune disease

after diving into medical papers

like a kid who finally got a mystery worth solving.

When I told my doctor what I thought it was,

he didn’t need to run a whole lineup of tests in front of me.

He just looked — really looked —

and I could see the click happen behind his eyes.

 

And then he laughed,

a real, surprised laugh,

and said:

 

“Should I give you your co-pay back?”

 

And something warm flickered through me.

Not pride.

Not triumph.

 

It felt like love —

the kind that happens when someone actually sees you

and acknowledges that what you did

mattered.

 

It felt like gratitude.

And honestly,

that might be the most real version of love

we ever get from strangers.

 

Kids understand this instinctively.

They don’t need language.

They feel the truth before they can say it.

They know what matters

long before adults teach them to forget.

 

Ask a three-year-old what matters most and they’ll say:

 

Love.

Cookies.

Balloons.

Being outside.

Hugs.

Music.

My blanket.

Strawberry shortcake.

 

Ask someone at the very end of their life,

and their answer is the same.

 

It’s everyone in the middle —

the ones memorizing facts

and chasing gold stars

and performing importance —

who get confused.

 

Which is why I keep thinking…

what if we did this differently?

 

What if we stopped pretending facts were the point

and remembered how to wonder?

 

What if the next big idea didn’t come from the “smartest” adult,

but from a kindergartner

with grass in their hair

and marker on their hands

and a wild thought they can barely explain

but somehow

it’s exactly right?

 

What if that was the kind of world we lived in —

one where imagination came first

and facts came second?

 

Because the facts are the facts.

They’re easy now.

They’re everywhere.

We can look them up in two seconds.

 

But imagination —

wonder —

fearless curiosity —

that’s the part we’re starving for.

 

Maybe the next age

isn’t the Age of Information at all.

 

Maybe it’s the Age of Wonder.

 

And maybe —

just maybe —

I was never crazy to think that.

 

Maybe I was just

the girl on the playground

waving everyone over,

saying:

 

“Come here.

Look.

Do you see it?

This is the part that matters.”