Growing up bored

Still trying to escape my childhood summers

When I think of my childhood, I think of its summers. The kind of summers where the light lasts forever, but the days feel oddly still. Disney shows play in the background. The hum of the fan. The feeling of waiting for something to happen.

Those long, listless summer days. Time stretched on with nothing to look forward to. The quiet dread of realising nothing was happening, and no one was coming to change that. If I had to summarise my childhood in one word, it would be this: bored.

Not sad. Not unhappy. Just… bored.

It’s strange to admit that, because boredom feels ungrateful. This boredom, however, was not dramatic. I had a good childhood. My lunchbox was always packed with a balanced diet and my favourite snacks. My mum dropped me off and picked me up every day. We went on family trips during the holidays. I had loving parents. I was cared for.

But I was bored.

I don’t remember much, but I remember that feeling. Especially during the summers. Summer was supposed to be exciting. It was meant to be what you counted down to all year. Freedom. Fun. Long days. But I always kind of dreaded it. The days felt so long and shapeless. During term times, I had somewhere to go. I had classmates to run around with. I had the library with its endless books. I had a reason to go out into the world.

In the summer, all of that disappeared.

I don’t know if it was odd that I didn’t find sitting inside for days on end alluring. Watching Disney shows. Playing Wii or Xbox with my little brother. It was fine, but not fulfilling. I missed having somewhere to be. I missed the chatter of school. I missed feeling stimulated.

I didn’t go out much during those summers. I didn’t visit friends’ houses. I didn’t go to the park on weekends. I never properly learned how to ride a bike. Swimming lessons were brief and forgettable. I had but one cousin in the same city, and sleepovers were fun, until they blurred into the same indoor stillness. Even the company couldn’t always cure the inertia.

If I’m honest, I think I’m still trying to escape my childhood summers. I think that’s why I take my will to go out and see the world so seriously now. Especially in the summer. I fill my days on purpose. With friends and alone. Restaurants, cafés, art galleries, pottery classes, and painting. The cinema. Ice-cream runs. Bake days. Afternoon teas. Game nights. Movie nights. Long walks just because.

Anything that makes the day feel lived.

I never really questioned why staying inside for too long makes me feel drained and slightly hopeless. Why I feel restless if I don’t leave the house for days. But I think it’s because it transports me back to those summers. The boredom. The stillness. The feeling of time stretching but not actually being used.

I sometimes wonder what a whimsical childhood feels like. Does it mean Saturdays in the park? Being signed up for judo, sewing, and swimming all at once? Learning to ride a bike properly? Museum trips. Tagging along to your parents’ workplaces. Sleepovers with friends that actually involved going out. Cousins everywhere. Noise. Activity.

I don’t resent my parents. I don’t blame them. They gave me stability and love in their own way. But I have made an intentional choice: to fill my adult life with the whimsy my childhood lacked.

And one day, if I have a child, I will be deliberate about their summers. About their Saturdays. About making sure their days feel expansive. Lived. Remembered.

With love,

Lola.