Casually Curious in the Name of Being Honest

As a nanny, I spend most of my day surrounded by tiny humans with big feelings and no filter.
It’s chaotic, it’s hilarious, and at times—absolutely brutal.
I get a front-row seat to them figuring out who they are—what they love, what they loathe, and how passionate they are about both.

I try to give them space to be themselves.
Sensitive, chaotic, wildly expressive, and kind of brilliant.
I think that’s one of the most important parts of growing up: being allowed to feel what you feel and say what you need to say, even if it doesn’t come out perfectly.

Sometimes their honesty hits like poetry.
Other times… it hits like a brick.

This week, it was the latter.

The little girl I care for looked up at me—
completely deadpan: “Why do you talk so funny?”

I knew exactly what she meant. But still—I asked, “What do you mean?”

She said, “Like when you do m-m-mine or b-b-baby.”

Ah. There it was.

Suddenly, I was twelve again, in a classroom, cheeks burning as the boy I liked asked the exact same thing in front of everyone in Mrs. Riley’s art class.
My stutter always felt like the part of me I had to manage, not embrace.
For years, I edited myself mid-sentence. Avoided words that might trip me up. I still do, if I’m honest.
I’ve worked really hard to let go of the shame I’ve carried around it—but it still has a way of finding me in the most unexpected places.

It definitely stung—even coming from someone in sparkly Velcro shoes and a cat ear headband. But it didn’t send me into a spiral. And honestly, that feels like progress.

Then, to really drive it home, she told me to smile—and pointed out how big my teeth are.

Nannying is not for the weak.

She asks why I don’t have a husband the same way you’d ask someone why they forgot their coat.  This job will humble the hell out of you.

But her questions got me thinking.
What if everyone was that honest?
Not rude. Not cruel. Just… honest.

Adults don’t usually ask why you talk funny.
They either stare too long, try to finish your sentences, or pretend they didn’t notice.
We’ve been trained to avoid discomfort at all costs.
We’re told it’s rude to name what makes us different—even when it’s sitting right there, loud and obvious, in the middle of the room.

And sure, maybe that is the polite thing to do.
But honestly?
Sometimes I just wish someone would acknowledge it so I could stop wondering if they noticed.

Kids don’t come with that filter. They ask. You answer. And then they move on—usually to snacks.

No shame. No overthinking. Just curiosity.

And that curiosity is paired with a kind of boldness that I miss.
They don’t just speak freely—they dream freely.
Astronauts. Princesses. Astronaut princesses.
They believe anything is possible, and they don’t apologize for it.

I used to be like that.
At one point, I wanted to be a singer. Then a marine biologist. Then a director.
Then all three.
As if the world wouldn’t dare tell me no.

But somewhere along the way, boldness turned into hesitation.
Every choice started to feel like it carried the weight of the world.
I stopped trusting my gut and started over-thinking everything.
Traded in dreams for safety.
Possibility for practicality.
And I miss her. The version of me that wasn’t scared yet.
She’s still there—I can feel her. Quiet, but stirring.

These days, when I let myself dream, it feels electric.
I can see the life I want: writing from a sunlit desk, the ocean in the background, one cat on my lap and the other curled at my feet.
Banana bread in the oven.
Peace.
Space.
Not just surviving—living.

And then, right on cue, my brain pipes in:
Be practical. Be smart. Come back down.

But what if I didn’t?

What if we all stayed in the clouds a little longer?

I know full-blown toddler honesty probably wouldn’t work in adult society.
But I still think there’s something there.
Something in saying what we mean.
In asking questions without tiptoeing around them.
In being curious without being cruel.

That little girl wasn’t trying to hurt me.
She just wanted to understand something.
And once I answered her, she let it go.

No awkwardness. No analysis. Just a question… and then peanut butter pretzels.

Maybe the little ones are onto something.

Maybe we should start listening.