There was a time when childhood meant dirt under your nails, scuffed knees, and laughter echoing through the neighborhood until the streetlights came on. We didn’t need phones to tell us when to come home — our parents’ voices carried across the yards, and that was enough.
Our moms cut raw chicken and butter on the same wooden board. Nobody owned a separate one for “food safety.” Somehow, we survived — no sanitizer, no antibacterial wipes, no panic over germs. Sandwiches went into paper bags without ice packs, and we ate them hours later, sitting cross-legged on warm playground benches. No one talked about E. coli, and yet, we grew up fine.
Our shoes were cheap sandshoes that wore thin after a season, but we didn’t care. They were meant for running, climbing, and exploring. The playground wasn’t padded — it was gravel, dirt, and splinters. Falling hurt, but we got up. Crying didn’t mean weakness; it meant you’d get patched up with iodine, maybe a kiss, and then sent right back outside.
We didn’t have tablets, consoles, or streaming services. We had sticks that became swords, mud pies that became feasts, and swings that carried our imaginations to other worlds. We weren’t entertained — we created entertainment.
Discipline wasn’t a dirty word. We respected adults not because they demanded it, but because we were taught to. If we stepped out of line, we got a stern look or a smack on the hand, and somehow, it worked. There were no time-outs, no therapy sessions — just lessons we learned early and remembered for life.
Our families weren’t “dysfunctional.” They were just families — imperfect, loud, loving, and sometimes chaotic. Parents argued, made up, and moved on. Kids fought, forgave, and went back to playing together by evening. We didn’t have labels for everything; we just lived through it.
When we got sick, we didn’t run to urgent care. Our moms had a small bottle of iodine and a bandage that fixed everything. If we sneezed, it meant “bless you,” not a week off school. We built our immune systems the old-fashioned way — by touching everything, eating whatever was on our plate, and drinking water straight from the garden hose.
We didn’t have “mental health awareness” days, but we had something just as powerful — connection. We had best friends who showed up at our door without texting first, grandmas who listened without judgment, and neighbors who looked out for us like family.
And through it all, we found joy. We learned gratitude. We grew strong. We didn’t need participation trophies or constant validation. Our achievements were measured in scraped elbows, muddy faces, and how high we could swing before our stomachs dropped.
So here’s to that era — the kids who played outside until sunset, who made it through without helmets, sanitizers, or screens. The kids who learned resilience, respect, and real fun.
We might shake our heads at how much the world has changed, but deep down, we know how lucky we were. We were raised tough — and happy.
Sending love to everyone who remembers.