The weight of knowing

Me, before I knew too much

There comes a moment in every adult's life when someone, with kind eyes and a gentle voice, asks, “What do you miss the most?”

And without hesitation, I know my answer. I miss the way I used to see the world—before I knew too much about it.

Before broken promises. Before masks people wear so effortlessly. Before I learned that not everyone means what they say.

I miss the version of life where forever felt like a real promise, not just a beautiful word. Where people didn’t have to pretend to be someone else to be loved. Where love was pure, and friendship wasn’t temporary. Where trust came easily, and “I’m sorry” meant change, not just regret.

I miss believing that love always wins. That good things happen to good people. That friendships were unbreakable, not seasonal.

But growing up has a way of teaching you otherwise. It teaches you that heartbreak isn’t always loud—sometimes it’s the quiet fading of someone who used to mean everything. It’s learning that pain doesn’t always come with warning signs, and that some of the deepest wounds are the ones you can’t see.

Just the other day, I was telling a friend about someone else’s breakup. She looked at me and said, “Bro, you’re still shocked? It’s normal now. Breakups, divorces — they happen like it’s nothing. No one even feels it deeply anymore.” And that hit me. Because she was right. Somewhere along the line, even heartbreak lost its meaning. What once shattered us now barely stings — not because it hurts less, but because we've been trained to expect it. And maybe that’s the saddest part of all.

And if I’m being really honest... I miss me.

The softer version. The one who smiled without hiding pain. The one who dreamed freely, who believed love was enough, who thought every story would have a happy ending. I miss the girl who hadn’t yet learned to guard her heart. The one who didn’t analyze every word, every silence. The one who loved loudly — and believed it would be returned the same.

That version of me felt lighter. Braver. Alive in a different way. And sometimes, I ache for her — even though I know she only existed before the world taught me otherwise.

The hardest part? You can’t unknow what you know. You can’t return to the innocent version of yourself—the one who saw the world as kind, who believed people were naturally good, and that everything happens for a reason you’d eventually understand.

Because now, you know too much. And that knowing carries a weight.

So when someone asks me, “What do you miss the most?” I’ll take a breath, smile softly, and say —

I miss the version of me who hadn’t learned all this yet.

Yet, no matter how much I’ve changed… a piece of that younger me still lives quietly inside. Still hoping. Still trusting. Still believing that the world, in some way, can be beautiful again