It was survival disguised as wonder.

While other kids vanished into glowing screens and shiny new distractions, we dug our hands into the earth, searching for tiny miracles that only children with big imaginations and small budgets could appreciate. We lived in a world where luxury belonged to someone else — where the newest toys, game consoles, and trendy clothes felt like they came from another universe entirely.

So we found our magic in the dirt beneath our feet.

Trumpet worm nests weren’t just nests — they were treasure chests, secret worlds hidden underground. We treated them like discoveries only the brave and curious could find. Kneeling in the dust, we sifted through soil as if we were uncovering the universe one handful at a time. Those small moments were our adventures, our games, our joy.

In that dirt, we learned to share without being told to. We learned to compete without cruelty, to cheer each other on even when we lost. We learned that imagination could turn a barren yard into a kingdom, a field into a battlefield, a handful of worms into a miracle. Boredom didn’t exist for long — not when curiosity was free.

Those days carved something unshakable into us. Hardship didn’t just surround our childhood; it sharpened us, strengthened us, softened us in the right ways and hardened us in the ones that mattered. We learned early that happiness wasn’t something you bought — it was something you built.

We became masters of making joy out of almost nothing.

We learned to celebrate what we had instead of drowning in what we lacked. To find humor in disappointment, magic in the mundane, and purpose in the simplest tasks. While others had gadgets, we had grit. While they had things, we had stories — stories born from scraped knees, barefoot summers, and dusty afternoons that felt endless.

And now, as adults, when life feels heavy and responsibilities pile up like mountains, we remember those days: muddy hands gripping tiny treasures, breathless laughter echoing through narrow streets, the kind of happiness that didn’t need approval, money, or perfection.

We remember how it felt to be rich in moments, even when we were poor in everything else.

That’s our quiet superpower — the resilience shaped by a childhood that taught us to find beauty in small things and strength in places no one else thought to look. The ability to turn scarcity into creativity, struggle into gratitude, and simple memories into lifelong anchors.

We didn’t just survive those years.

We grew from them.
We were shaped by them.
And because of them, we carry a piece of wonder that the world can’t take away.