I was grown up by the time I was five, I think. There are so many websites and books out there that encourage you to touch your inner child and set her free. My inner child certainly wasn’t typical; I didn’t paint or draw or play with other children very often. I grew up surrounded by adults, always wanting to be a part of that world, and serious from the time I was young. I knew rules. I lived by them every instant. Inner child? No. She was off in her own world.
My inner child did not play in the typical sense. She dreamed. She would dive into books, fantasy books, and read the hours away. There she could ride horses, wield swords, shoot archery, and fight to defend the kingdom. My inner child came out then. She would do the same with my She-Ra figures, making up stories while she played. It was about fantasy. It was always about fantasy.
It still is.
Horses and wizards and fighting the evil warrior’s minions are second nature and I write them into my stories. I finally realized the other day that just because my inner child was not, and never will be, a typical inner child, it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t exist. Oh no, she’s there all right, full of courage and adventure.
She just needs a bit of magic.