It was my mother who chose my name. While it is quite common, I’m certain that the method she used to choose it was not; the name had to sound sophisticated after “Chief Justice.” Apparently, Chief Justice Isabella Wong was adequate. However, much to her dismay, growing up, none of my friends in elementary school called me by my first name. In fact, I went almost exclusively by Izzy – it got to the point where some of my teachers called me that too.

I don’t remember when this nickname arose, or who started calling me it first, but it marked a clear divide between my childhood and my adolescence. Those same elementary school friends no longer call me Izzy. It doesn’t feel strange, though. My full name reflects who I am now: a realistic, ambitious young adult who doesn’t carry the same notions of life as she did during her youth.

That’s not to say I don’t miss being a child. In many ways, for me, it was easier. My prepubescent metabolism was faster. I didn’t overanalyze my interactions with others. I had fewer responsibilities. I must say, childhood was not as emotionally exhausting. 

Sometimes, these feelings of melancholy wash over me, and I’m saddened that I seem to have lost the innocence and imagination of my youth. One story my mom likes to tell is about the time she bought a rutabaga, and my creative brain thought it was a toy, instead of a root vegetable. I named him Rooteebaga and would wave at him every time my little feet padded by the kitchen island. To my mom’s great relief, I was not overly devastated by the loss of Rooteebaga when he was cooked for dinner. On the days when my parents did not feel like cooking, we would go out, and one place we frequented was Lone Star. Each time my siblings and I would ask the server for dough balls, the ones used to make tortillas. For half an hour, we were engrossed in shaping the perfect cube or forming lopsided snowmen.

My siblings used to tease me about this, but I loved wearing bright and questionably matched clothing as a kid. I still have this blue shirt in my closet with a cupcake recipe printed on it, which I wore far too much during elementary. (I am almost certain I have worn it to Lone Star, too.) Wearing that shirt made me feel invincible. Really, it was the simple things that brought me joy as a child, and it makes me wonder when being happy became so complicated.

There’s also this sense that the world is limitless when you’re young. Fairies can be real. Food-colouring dyed ice blocks were a currency during winter recess. Our futures held whatever we wanted them to. Being practical had not yet crossed our minds, and we got to imagine what we could be instead of who we were supposed to be.

But situations change, minds change, and sometimes those changes only come with age. Aging was what caused me to lose my idealistic views., but growing even older helped me regain something I hadn’t realized I’d lost: a passion for simply existing. Coming to university opened up pathways my brain had closed off, allowing the possibilities to unroll in front of me. I learned that passion and pragmatism can be balanced. And best of all, I had the space to figure out who I was and who I wanted to be.

You don’t realize it as a child, but it’s very hard to figure out who you are when you’re young because you’re so malleable and susceptible to your surroundings. I remember regurgitating my friends' or parents' words, simply because I admired them as people, so surely I was supposed to agree with them about everything too. I liked what they liked, and even if I didn’t, I pretended I did because I felt I had no other choice. It wasn’t until my later adolescence – and the independence that came with it – that I understood I’m allowed to form my own opinions, even if they differed from my loved ones. I became confident in my own decisions and discovered so much about myself and the world.

For the first time in many years, I genuinely liked who I was. When I returned home from university, falling asleep in my childhood bedroom, and I was struck by this feeling of loss. Being back with my parents and without the distraction of school and my new friends, I became acutely aware of the fact that, in my newfound state of maturity, I had pushed aside parts of myself that had created my best memories. The parts that were delighted by outside adventures with my friends or relished the idea of creating something with my bare hands. The childish ones.

What really defines childish, though? Is still liking drinking out of juice boxes childish? Is wanting to rewatch kids’ TV shows childish? Why does the word childish inherently have a negative connotation? Does fully accepting adulthood mean leaving behind the childish parts, even if they are some of the best parts of you?

I hope not. I think about all of my childhood experiences now and feel the need to question how they brought me so much happiness. Dough balls? A shirt from The Children’s Place? How was I so easily entertained? Then I think of who I am at this very moment, and I still love variations of those things. I still enjoy playing with slime. I still have clothes that make me feel invincible.

So maybe it’s not a childish outlook on the world I still carry with me today. Maybe it’s my childhood habits and enjoyment that have woven their way into me. I have undoubtedly changed over the years, but some things about me will always be the same. And that’s okay. We’re allowed to embrace the childish parts that remain alive within us.

My friends may not call me Izzy, but she is still here.

Illustration by Sydney Hanson