Tiny Hearts Break Quietly; Handle them Gently

Literary by Roxxie Tabile

Have you ever wondered why some children grow up too fast—long before they even learn how to breathe without fear?

When I look back at my childhood, it plays like an old film with scenes missing. Most parts blur together, maybe because I never had a happy one to hold on to.

Now, in my present pre-adulting days, I found myself in a multipurpose gym for an outreach program: monoblock chairs, tiny hands, and picture books stacked like soft little worlds waiting to be opened.

A boy with Spiderman face paint approached and whispered, “Ate, when I’m big, no one can scare me anymore, right?”

Then a girl with loose pigtails asked, “If I finish all these books, will I grow up faster?”

Their questions were simple, yet the fear beneath them felt heavy. I wanted to answer them the way no one answered me before.

You don’t need to be big yet.
You don’t need to be brave yet.
You only need to be a child.

After that day, I stared at my old pictures—letting the colors settle: forests glowing soft green, stars smiling kindly. I wondered what it would feel like if my own story had been drawn with that same gentleness.

Some adults tossed difficult wisdom at us like stones they expected us to pocket.
“Broken crayons still color.”
“Glowsticks must crack to glow.”

They offered these lines as comfort, but they felt like warnings. Even as a child, I knew I didn’t want to break just to prove something.

Children are not crayons.
They are not glowsticks.
They are small hearts trying to understand a world that forgets how fragile they are.

One stormy afternoon, a little boy said, “Ate, I’m practicing not crying so I’ll be strong when I’m older.”

My heart folded inward. I wanted to tell him, “Crying doesn’t make you weak. It lets your heart breathe.”

Childhood is not a test; it is a season meant to be lived slowly.

Children grow best in safe places where stories bloom gently. They need warmth the way morning light needs space to enter a room.

But too many kids are rushed forward, pushed into roles they are not ready for. Childhood becomes a chapter torn too early—edited by hands that should have been patient.

During quiet moments, I imagine a world that protects childhood like a rare book: every page turned carefully, every moment given time. A world where dragons exist only in storybooks, not in the form of people who should have been protectors. A world where the most important lessons are kindness, curiosity, and laughter.

I think of the younger version of myself sitting quietly with a book pressed to my chest, waiting for gentleness. That memory still aches.

I speak for that child now.

No child should have to grow strong before they feel safe.
No child should gain wisdom through wounds.
They deserve comfort, softness, and time—stories instead of struggles, guidance instead of fear.

Every child should walk through their early years with wonder, not worry.

And everything I learned too early, I now return as a promise: I will protect the beginning of every child I meet. Their story will be held with care, not force.

A kid should never be shaped by pain; a child should be read like a story worth holding with gentle hands.