What if we loved grown-ups like we love kids?
Science tells us that when a woman gives birth, her body becomes awash in hormones — oxytocin, endorphins, prolactin — a potent biochemical cocktail designed to bind her, irrevocably, to the life she’s just brought into the world.
My friends who are mothers often speak of their love for their children with a kind of intensity that borders on reverence; they document their little ones’ lives in journals, month by month, as if writing love letters to the future versions of these small beings, capturing not just moments but evidence of becoming — the scraped knees, the gap-toothed grins, the bedtime whispers and the impossible tantrums. Their children are everywhere — not just in their lives, but in every narrative they carry.
And this isn’t a critique — not in the slightest — but I find myself quietly wondering: do we extend that same kind of reverence, that same unwavering attention, to the growth of the adults we love?
Do we write down the moment they unlearned a toxic habit?
Do we share about the first time they apologized differently — not just to be forgiven, but to be understood?
Do we hold space for their transformation in the same way we marvel at a child taking their first unsteady steps?
Are we as tenderly curious about our partners’ inner evolution — not because they’re young or new, but because they’re still growing, still shaping themselves, still reaching for the next version of who they might be?
Children grow loudly, visibly, and all at once — one day obsessed with dinosaurs, the next day broken down because the moon looked at them wrong — and we praise them for it, we expect it, we create rituals around their becoming, we forgive their meltdowns and make room for their mess, knowing that it’s all part of something beautiful unfolding.
But the truth is: the world is full of wounded children wearing the armor of adults.
Not so far from the ones crying over a bruised knee or mourning a lost pet — only now they’re 35, questioning their career, grieving someone dear, or recovering from their first business failure.
Some stopped growing emotionally at 16. Others don’t start again until they’re 60.
But unlike a child, the growth of an adult is quieter. Less obvious. Less celebrated.
No one claps when you learn to hold your anger differently.
There’s no certificate for emotional resilience.
No cake for choosing to be vulnerable again after years of silence.
Maybe we’ve learned to underestimate adult transformation simply because it’s inconvenient, because it doesn’t photograph well, because there’s no obvious ceremony to mark it
There are no recitals. No report cards. No proud Facebook posts.
But I keep wondering… what if we chose to love grown-ups in the way we love children?
What would it change in us if we started recording our grown ups emotional breakthroughs like a baby’s first words — if we gave out gold stars for going to therapy, or threw quiet dinner parties to honor the resilience it takes to stay soft after heartbreak?
What would happen if we learned to fall in love not with the curated, polished versions of each other, but with the messy, fragile, still-learning selves we carry inside?
Should there be rituals for that?
Not necessarily journaling our partner’s or our friends' emotional evolution the way we'd mark a baby’s first laugh but should we celebrates the awkward phase between “I don’t know” and “I’m trying?”
Should we throw dinner parties for people who’ve learned how to say “I was wrong”?
Should we celebrate the slow, uneven, beautiful unfolding of someone still learning how to love?
Now the question isn’t simply: "What if we loved the grown ups the same way we love kids?" but also "What kind of world might we create if we did?"
Because maybe — just maybe — that’s the kind of love that could heal us all.
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