🎨 Play for Grown-Ups: Relearning Joy Without a Goal

At some point in our lives, as we got older, we just stopped playing.

It’s sort of weird to conceptualize — because much like how, at some point in childhood, your parents put you down and never carried you again… at some point, “play” was just quietly phased out of our daily lives.

I vaguely remember my first day of middle school when there wasn’t recess anymore — just break and lunch. No playground. Just a kind of prison yard with benches and a shade structure. Like somehow, because we were 11 to 13 now, we had outgrown the need to run around and burn off energy.

And play was so natural as a kid. There was no purpose, no productivity, just joy.

After that fateful first day of just… middle school, play started to look different. Video games, goofing off with friends, mischief and inside jokes — but it wasn’t quite the same as the full-bodied, imaginative play we did as young children. We believed we had outgrown it.

Now, as adults, play mostly gets replaced by hobbies — most of which we feel the need to monetize. Even video games are often filtered through the lens of streaming or optimizing your stats. Which, honestly? Props to the people managing to make that work. But I miss the days of unstructured, judgment-free fun.

I want to come back to that.

But here’s the hard part: I don’t always let myself.

Even when I crave that kind of silly, beautiful, unproductive play, I hesitate. I talk myself out of it. I tell myself I should be doing something more useful, something that moves the needle. And that inner voice? It’s not always cruel — but it is persistent. It sounds like responsibility. Like reason. Like adulthood. And it makes joy feel like a luxury I haven’t earned.

🧩 What Happened to Play?

I think it’s so bizarre that one day, completely randomly, we were collectively told we were too old for play. No ceremony. No moment of closure. Just a quiet, cultural shift — like a door that closed behind us while we weren’t looking.

In the United States especially, we’re indoctrinated so young with the pressure to be productive, to be useful, to earn every moment of joy. We’re rewarded for achievements, not curiosity. For output, not exploration. And the message is loud. Loud enough that eventually we don’t need anyone else to say it — we start saying it to ourselves.

By the time we’re teenagers, the things that once brought us joy — coloring, make-believe, tree climbing, games that had no winner — are considered childish or embarrassing. Suddenly everything has to be useful. Even our free time becomes about self-improvement. We have to get better. We have to get good. We have to have something to show for it.

Even moments that should be playful become wrapped in perfectionism. We’re not allowed to just enjoy the process — we’re expected to master the skill. If we’re not good at it, if we can’t monetize it or turn it into something impressive, it doesn’t feel “worth” doing.

I remember trying to pick up drawing again a few years ago and immediately thinking, Well, I’m not very good at this.
As if that should matter.
As if joy is only valid if it’s aesthetically pleasing or Instagrammable.
I forgot that play isn’t supposed to be good. It’s just supposed to be.

That’s not play. That’s performance with bad lighting.

And I want something softer than that. Something that doesn’t need to be shared, graded, or explained.
But I’m still learning how to want it out loud.

🫣 The Guilt That Gets in the Way

Even now, writing about this, I feel a little self-conscious. Because I haven’t mastered this yet — not even close.
Sometimes I still choose the to-do list over the crayon box.
Sometimes I don’t sing the silly song.
Sometimes I convince myself that “fun” is just another distraction I can’t afford.

And it’s hard to admit that.

It feels vulnerable to say, “I’m not sure I know how to play anymore,” or “I don’t know how to turn off the part of me that feels like I have to earn joy.”
But I think that honesty matters.
Because it’s not that we don’t want to play — it’s that somewhere along the way, we were taught not to. And unlearning that isn’t instant. It’s awkward. It’s slow. It’s scary.

But it’s also deeply, deeply worth it.

🎠 Redefining Play on Your Own Terms

I’m speaking as an adult who doesn’t have any children, and I know this experience is probably different for those of you who do. Kids bring play back into your life in unexpected ways — they demand imagination, mess, repetition, and presence. But when you don’t have that constant reminder, play becomes something you have to choose. Something you have to remember how to want.

And I think that’s part of why it feels so hard sometimes. Because we still carry the weight of that message we were given — that play is childish, silly, unserious. That we’re supposed to grow out of it. That rest and joy and pleasure are things we’re allowed only after the hard work is done.

But play doesn’t have to look like it did in childhood. I think I know a little too much about the world now to fully lose myself in make-believe the way I used to. And that’s okay.

Because play can look different. It can grow with you.

One of my friends is an aerialist — she literally describes her practice as play. Swinging, spinning, flipping upside-down — not to compete, not to perform (although she is a performer), but because it makes her feel alive, everyday she gets to fly. One of my favorite yoga instructors brings that same spirit into her classes. She’ll throw in silly movements, encourage weird shapes, have us roll around on the floor like kids in gym class, tell the most unhinged punny jokes. And it’s not about getting the pose “right.” It’s about playing with motion. Releasing the need to be impressive.

That shift in perspective has been huge for me.

🎵 What I’m Trying (Sometimes)

Some days, I still hesitate.
But other days? I say yes.

I pick up my ukulele — not to practice, not to perform, just to noodle. To write weird little songs that make me laugh. Songs about nothing. Songs I’d probably never share. But they’re fun. They feel like mine.

I bought myself crayons — the nice big crayon box, the one I always wanted as a kid but wasn’t allowed to have. And I started drawing again. Not for art. Not for aesthetics. Just to feel what it feels like to move color across a page. Just to enjoy the feeling of my hand doing something useless and wonderful.

Sometimes I cut out magazine clippings and make mood boards that I never post.
Sometimes I spend twenty minutes dressing up like a fairy or a pirate or a very tired Victorian poet just because I enjoy that kind of thing.

And the thing is, none of this is practical. None of it is productive. It doesn’t add to my resume or my savings account or my future goals.

But it brings me back to myself.

It reminds me that joy is reason enough.
That being silly doesn’t need to be earned.
That “just because it feels good” is plenty of justification.

🌈 Looking for Glimmers

Now, I’m learning to chase glimmers. Little things that feel joyful. That feel like play.

When I notice them — and when I have the energy, the courage, the room — I try to say yes.

Yes to spontaneous invitations.
Yes to one-wheeling down a quiet street.
Yes to sidewalk chalk on the curb.
Yes to playing soccer with my dog in the courtyard, even if I look completely ridiculous doing it barefoot in pajamas.

I haven’t committed to the swing set bit yet — being an adult at a playground without kids still feels a little too weird — but goddamn, do I miss them. That flying feeling. That gentle chaos. That complete surrender to the moment.

Lately I’ve been seeking more ways to play through movement. Not working out. Not performing. Just moving for the joy of it. Letting my body be a little silly.

I’m connecting more deeply with my friends — and with their kids, too. Letting myself be swept into their games, their imaginations, their stories. Letting go of the need to be the “adult” all the time. Letting myself experience joy without analyzing it, naming it, or trying to turn it into something useful.

This version of play isn’t loud or performative. It’s quiet. Soft. Real.

And more than anything, it feels like coming home to a part of myself I didn’t even realize I missed.

🏡 Play as a Practice

Relearning play isn’t easy. It’s uncomfortable. Vulnerable.
There’s still a voice in me that says it’s silly. That it’s irresponsible. That I should be doing something more “important.”

🎨 Play for Grown-Ups: Relearning Joy Without a Goal

At some point in our lives, as we got older, we just stopped playing.

It’s sort of weird to conceptualize — because much like how, at some point in childhood, your parents put you down and never carried you again… at some point, “play” was just quietly phased out of our daily lives.

I vaguely remember my first day of middle school when there wasn’t recess anymore — just break and lunch. No playground. Just a kind of prison yard with benches and a shade structure. Like somehow, because we were 11 to 13 now, we had outgrown the need to run around and burn off energy.

And play was so natural as a kid. There was no purpose, no productivity, just joy.

After that fateful first day of just… middle school, play started to look different. Video games, goofing off with friends, mischief and inside jokes — but it wasn’t quite the same as the full-bodied, imaginative play we did as young children. We believed we had outgrown it.

Now, as adults, play mostly gets replaced by hobbies — most of which we feel the need to monetize. Even video games are often filtered through the lens of streaming or optimizing your stats. Which, honestly? Props to the people managing to make that work. But I miss the days of unstructured, judgment-free fun.

I want to come back to that.

But here’s the hard part: I don’t always let myself.

Even when I crave that kind of silly, beautiful, unproductive play, I hesitate. I talk myself out of it. I tell myself I should be doing something more useful, something that moves the needle. And that inner voice? It’s not always cruel — but it is persistent. It sounds like responsibility. Like reason. Like adulthood. And it makes joy feel like a luxury I haven’t earned.

🧩 What Happened to Play?

I think it’s so bizarre that one day, completely randomly, we were collectively told we were too old for play. No ceremony. No moment of closure. Just a quiet, cultural shift — like a door that closed behind us while we weren’t looking.

In the United States especially, we’re indoctrinated so young with the pressure to be productive, to be useful, to earn every moment of joy. We’re rewarded for achievements, not curiosity. For output, not exploration. And the message is loud. Loud enough that eventually we don’t need anyone else to say it — we start saying it to ourselves.

By the time we’re teenagers, the things that once brought us joy — coloring, make-believe, tree climbing, games that had no winner — are considered childish or embarrassing. Suddenly everything has to be useful. Even our free time becomes about self-improvement. We have to get better. We have to get good. We have to have something to show for it.

Even moments that should be playful become wrapped in perfectionism. We’re not allowed to just enjoy the process — we’re expected to master the skill. If we’re not good at it, if we can’t monetize it or turn it into something impressive, it doesn’t feel “worth” doing.

I remember trying to pick up drawing again a few years ago and immediately thinking, Well, I’m not very good at this.
As if that should matter.
As if joy is only valid if it’s aesthetically pleasing or Instagrammable.
I forgot that play isn’t supposed to be good. It’s just supposed to be.

That’s not play. That’s performance with bad lighting.

And I want something softer than that. Something that doesn’t need to be shared, graded, or explained.
But I’m still learning how to want it out loud.

🫣 The Guilt That Gets in the Way

Even now, writing about this, I feel a little self-conscious. Because I haven’t mastered this yet — not even close.
Sometimes I still choose the to-do list over the crayon box.
Sometimes I don’t sing the silly song.
Sometimes I convince myself that “fun” is just another distraction I can’t afford.

And it’s hard to admit that.

It feels vulnerable to say, “I’m not sure I know how to play anymore,” or “I don’t know how to turn off the part of me that feels like I have to earn joy.”
But I think that honesty matters.
Because it’s not that we don’t want to play — it’s that somewhere along the way, we were taught not to. And unlearning that isn’t instant. It’s awkward. It’s slow. It’s scary.

But it’s also deeply, deeply worth it.

🎠 Redefining Play on Your Own Terms

I’m speaking as an adult who doesn’t have any children, and I know this experience is probably different for those of you who do. Kids bring play back into your life in unexpected ways — they demand imagination, mess, repetition, and presence. But when you don’t have that constant reminder, play becomes something you have to choose. Something you have to remember how to want.

And I think that’s part of why it feels so hard sometimes. Because we still carry the weight of that message we were given — that play is childish, silly, unserious. That we’re supposed to grow out of it. That rest and joy and pleasure are things we’re allowed only after the hard work is done.

But play doesn’t have to look like it did in childhood. I think I know a little too much about the world now to fully lose myself in make-believe the way I used to. And that’s okay.

Because play can look different. It can grow with you.

One of my friends is an aerialist — she literally describes her practice as play. Swinging, spinning, flipping upside-down — not to compete, not to perform (although she is a performer), but because it makes her feel alive, everyday she gets to fly. One of my favorite yoga instructors brings that same spirit into her classes. She’ll throw in silly movements, encourage weird shapes, have us roll around on the floor like kids in gym class, tell the most unhinged punny jokes. And it’s not about getting the pose “right.” It’s about playing with motion. Releasing the need to be impressive.

That shift in perspective has been huge for me.

🎵 What I’m Trying (Sometimes)

Some days, I still hesitate.
But other days? I say yes.

I pick up my ukulele — not to practice, not to perform, just to noodle. To write weird little songs that make me laugh. Songs about nothing. Songs I’d probably never share. But they’re fun. They feel like mine.

I bought myself crayons — the nice big crayon box, the one I always wanted as a kid but wasn’t allowed to have. And I started drawing again. Not for art. Not for aesthetics. Just to feel what it feels like to move color across a page. Just to enjoy the feeling of my hand doing something useless and wonderful.

Sometimes I cut out magazine clippings and make mood boards that I never post.
Sometimes I spend twenty minutes dressing up like a fairy or a pirate or a very tired Victorian poet just because I enjoy that kind of thing.

And the thing is, none of this is practical. None of it is productive. It doesn’t add to my resume or my savings account or my future goals.

But it brings me back to myself.

It reminds me that joy is reason enough.
That being silly doesn’t need to be earned.
That “just because it feels good” is plenty of justification.

🌈 Looking for Glimmers

Now, I’m learning to chase glimmers. Little things that feel joyful. That feel like play.

When I notice them — and when I have the energy, the courage, the room — I try to say yes.

Yes to spontaneous invitations.
Yes to one-wheeling down a quiet street.
Yes to sidewalk chalk on the curb.
Yes to playing soccer with my dog in the courtyard, even if I look completely ridiculous doing it barefoot in pajamas.

I haven’t committed to the swing set bit yet — being an adult at a playground without kids still feels a little too weird — but goddamn, do I miss them. That flying feeling. That gentle chaos. That complete surrender to the moment.

Lately I’ve been seeking more ways to play through movement. Not working out. Not performing. Just moving for the joy of it. Letting my body be a little silly.

I’m connecting more deeply with my friends — and with their kids, too. Letting myself be swept into their games, their imaginations, their stories. Letting go of the need to be the “adult” all the time. Letting myself experience joy without analyzing it, naming it, or trying to turn it into something useful.

This version of play isn’t loud or performative. It’s quiet. Soft. Real.

And more than anything, it feels like coming home to a part of myself I didn’t even realize I missed.

🏡 Play as a Practice

Relearning play isn’t easy. It’s uncomfortable. Vulnerable.
There’s still a voice in me that says it’s silly. That it’s irresponsible. That I should be doing something more “important.”

But play isn’t a distraction from life — it is life. The unstructured parts. The curious bits. The messy, pointless wonder.

It’s a way of remembering who you were before the world told you who to be.

The truth is, you don’t have to be healed or rested or caught up on your to-do list before you’re allowed to play.
You don’t need to earn it.
You don’t need to be “good” at it.
You don’t even need to be confident.

You just have to want joy — and be willing to let that want be loud enough to follow.

---

✨ Weekly Mantra

“Joy doesn’t have to be earned.”
It doesn’t need a reason.
It doesn’t need to be shared.
It just needs a little room to breathe.

But play isn’t a distraction from life — it is life. The unstructured parts. The curious bits. The messy, pointless wonder.

It’s a way of remembering who you were before the world told you who to be.

The truth is, you don’t have to be healed or rested or caught up on your to-do list before you’re allowed to play.
You don’t need to earn it.
You don’t need to be “good” at it.
You don’t even need to be confident.

You just have to want joy — and be willing to let that want be loud enough to follow.

---

✨ Weekly Mantra

“Joy doesn’t have to be earned.”
It doesn’t need a reason.
It doesn’t need to be shared.
It just needs a little room to breathe.