Journey Entry — The Students I Passed By

There are moments in a normal day when life suddenly becomes louder than usual, even if nothing dramatic is happening. Sometimes it’s just a sound in the background—a laugh, a shout, a voice full of excitement—that makes you pause and wonder about the version of yourself you left behind. Today, as I stepped out of the public transport, I didn’t expect a simple scene to tap me on the shoulder like a memory I didn’t realize I missed.

I had barely taken a few steps when I noticed a group of students gathered near the open space. They were loud, messy, joyful—completely absorbed in practicing for some school performance. Their laughter came in waves, filling the air with a kind of energy that only young people seem to carry so effortlessly. They weren’t thinking about deadlines, bills, or waking up early tomorrow. They were just in the moment, laughing at mistakes, repeating steps, teasing each other, living inside their tiny world of school uniforms and carefree afternoons.

As I watched them, something inside me softened. A part of me whispered, “I was once like that, wasn’t I?” But then another part answered quietly, “Did I really laugh like that? Did I ever allow myself to enjoy it that much?” And suddenly I wasn’t just a bystander—I was someone looking back at a version of myself I may have rushed too quickly.

I remembered how badly I wanted to finish school. How eager I was to grow up, to work, to earn money, to feel independent. At that time, the future felt exciting, and adulthood looked like freedom. I didn’t realize that in wanting to escape student life, I also escaped the simple joy that came with it.

Now here I am, standing on a busy street as an adult, watching these kids live a moment I once had but never fully appreciated.

As their laughter echoed behind me, I felt a small pinch in my chest—not exactly regret, but a quiet realization. Life really does move us forward without asking if we’re ready. And sometimes, we rush ourselves into the next chapter without understanding what the previous one was teaching us.

Maybe I didn’t enjoy being a student the way I should have. Maybe I was too focused on getting through the days instead of living in them. Seeing those students reminded me that youth isn’t just an age—it’s a softness, a lightness, a way of being present. And somewhere between responsibilities and expectations, I might have lost a bit of that.

I am still learning that growing up doesn’t mean letting go of wonder. Adulthood doesn’t have to be heavy all the time. Maybe life isn’t asking me to go back, but to bring that lost softness into the life I have now.

I am learning that there is no shame in missing a version of myself, especially the one who never got the chance to enjoy things slowly. But maybe the lesson now is to pause a little more, breathe a little deeper, and allow joy to enter in small, ordinary ways—even if I’m no longer in a classroom chasing grades or laughing with classmates.

Life isn’t easier as an adult, but it can still be meaningful. And maybe the joy I missed back then is something I can still choose today, in different forms, at different moments.

If ever I read this again someday, I hope I remember how those students made me stop and feel something real. I hope I don’t forget that life can be soft if I allow it to be. And even though I can’t return to those school days, I can still learn how to enjoy the days I have now—with a little more patience, a little more presence, and a little more kindness toward the person I’m becoming.