Be Pixar

I took the children to watch the new Toy Story film this week.

Like most Pixar films, it made me laugh, cry and think about life in ways I wasn't expecting.

On the surface, it's a story about toys trying to find where they belong in a world that is changing faster than they are. But underneath, it asks a much bigger question.

Have we forgotten how to play?

Not just children.

Us.

Somewhere between growing up, going to work, paying bills and trying to keep everyone else happy, I think many of us quietly stopped playing.

Have you noticed how children play?

Children build towers knowing they'll probably fall over.

They colour outside the lines.

They pretend.

They role-play.

One minute they're the scared child. The next they're the superhero who saves everyone. Then they're the doctor, the dragon or the teacher.

They're constantly replaying life.

Not because they're trying to escape reality.

I think they play because it's how they make sense of the world.

They replay what frightened them.

They become the monster.

Then the hero.

Then the parent.

Then the doctor.

They don't realise they're doing psychology.

They just call it play.

Somewhere along the way, we stop doing that.

We stop pretending to be the dragon. Instead, we become the adult who spends three days replaying an awkward conversation in the shower.

Over and over again.

Have you ever noticed what happens after you've made a mistake?

Perhaps you've forgotten somebody's birthday.

Said something you wish you hadn't.

Made the wrong decision.

Embarrassed yourself in front of other people.

The event itself is often over in minutes.

Yet somehow your mind keeps it alive - replaying it for days.

Sometimes weeks.

Sometimes years.

Overtime, the weather inside your head changes.

One thought gathers another.

Then another.

Before long, what began as a passing breeze has become something much harder to stand against.

Until eventually...

You find yourself standing in Headquarters.

I wonder if the same happens to you.

After the storm, instead of your mind going quiet, it's like you have entered a that colourful room in Inside Out.

Everyone is talking at once.

Fear goes "Remember what happened last time?"

Shame is convinced this proves you're not good enough.

"Let's never do that again."

Anger is firing up "That wasn't fair!"

Embarrassment wants to replay the whole thing in high definition.

Anxiety is already predicting what might go wrong next time.

Hope quietly waits in the corner because nobody ever lets her finish.

Curiosity is trying to speak but keeps being interrupted.

Compassion hasn't even sat down yet.

No wonder we feel overwhelmed.

No wonder making the next decision feels impossible.

Watching Toy Story this week made me wonder whether we've forgotten something important.

The toys don't solve life by sitting quietly.

They interact.

They explore.

They argue.

They imagine.

They role-play.

They play with them.

Children don't simply think about difficult experiences.

They replay them.

They experiment.

They imagine different endings.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped doing that.

Maybe we don't need to silence Fear.

Maybe we need to ask Fear what he's trying to protect.

Maybe Shame isn't trying to destroy us - maybe she's trying, rather clumsily, to stop us getting hurt again.

Maybe every emotion simply wants the chance to finish a conversation that was interrupted years ago.

What if Fear has been trying to finish the same sentence for twenty years?

What if Shame is still talking to you with the voice of your fourteen-year-old self?

What if Curiosity has been waiting patiently all this time, but Fear never lets her finish?

Role-play another ending.

Try on another perspective.

See what happens.

For a long time, I thought the goal was to quieten my mind.

People would talk about sitting in silence, taking a few deep breaths and feeling peaceful.

But whenever I sat quietly, my head became louder.

If anything, it felt less like meditation and more like walking into the staff room during coffee break. Conversations everywhere. Nobody waiting for their turn.

This was worse than the problem itself.

At first, I thought I was failing.

Mindfulness wasn't silence.

It wasn't emptying my head.

It wasn't making the coffee room disappear.

It was walking into the room...

pulling up a chair...

and listening.

Not believing every voice.

Just hearing them.

Like when you sit and listen to a friend.

Then...

I realised something.

I realised I needed to become my own best friend.

That means I have to check in with myself.

Every day.

Sometimes several times a day.

Not to judge what I find.

Just to ask, "What's going on today?"

We spend years waiting for someone else to validate us.

A parent.

A partner.

A teacher.

A boss.

And while encouragement matters, there's one relationship none of us can escape.

The one we have with ourselves.

If that relationship is built on criticism, every mistake feels like a trial.

If it's built on friendship, every mistake becomes a lesson.

If my best friend came to me after making a mistake, I wouldn't tell them they were hopeless.

I wouldn't tell them to stop overreacting.

I'd probably make them a cup of tea, let them talk, help them untangle the noise and remind them that one difficult moment doesn't define who they are.

This isn't about pretending difficult things don't happen.

Somewhere inside me there's still an eight-year-old who sometimes thinks she isn't enough.

There's a teenager who still cringes at things she wishes she'd never said.

There's a newly qualified dentist who doubted every decision.

They still pop into the coffee room occasionally.

They still have opinions.

They still become noisy.

But they don't need driving out.

They just need someone to listen.

They all did the best they could with the understanding they had at the time.

You are not that person anymore.

The memory belongs to them.

The wisdom belongs to you.

Maybe that's why compassion matters so much.

Not because it erases the difficult moments.

But because it finally allows us to visit them without becoming them again.

Sometimes I imagine opening the door to those memories.

Not to relive them.

Simply to thank them.

"Thank you for teaching me."

"Thank you for helping me grow."

"Thank you for getting me here."

Then quietly closing the door once more.

Not because the past didn't matter.

But because it has already done its job.

The child who survived those moments no longer needs to carry them alone.

The adult has finally arrived.

Perhaps that's what growing up really is.

Not becoming fearless.

Not becoming perfect.

But becoming the kind of person your younger self would have felt safe sitting beside.

We spend our lives trying to become kinder to other people.

Perhaps we should spend a little more time becoming kinder to the one person who has been quietly waiting to be heard all along.

The child who failed.

The teenager who felt embarrassed.

The adult who still wonders whether they're enough.

Invite them into the room.

Let them finish speaking.

Thank them for getting you this far.

Then gently remind them...

"I've got it from here."