As a child, summertime didn’t just mean freedom from school, it meant magic.

It meant bare feet on warm dirt and sometimes hot cement sidewalks. I had many a “stumped toe” as we called it in the South. Summer meant syrupy sweet slurpies and melting chocolate candy bars that mama brought home from the drug store she worked at. It was a symphony of tambourines, drums, and shouting at the church revivals next door. It was long days that turned into storybook afternoons in my great-grandma’s yard, where I stepped fully into the world of imagination, carefree, barefoot, and bold.

Some of my most cherished memories happened right there, in that yard. It was a sacred world. The long alleyway of dirt lined between great-grandma’s house and her long-time neighbor, the crooked tree that gave shade, the earth that let me play and create. And, of course, my secret stash of real dishes for my make believe kitchen.

While great-grandma Rose and Mr. Gant were talking to each other across their porch, I’d go into the backdoor which opened right into the dining room and kitchen. I’d carefully get some of grandma’s old pots, pans, and pie dishes, and walk back out to the alley like I had found hidden treasure. With the sun and the dirt awaiting to kiss my skin, I’d grab up some dirt into the pie dish and run a little water over it from the outdoor faucet. It had to be a slow stream so I could get the consistency just right. Then, I slipped them underneath the house and placed them on brick slabs to “bake.” I was making pies and they had to be made with love and care.

We all know that no good southern meal is complete without sides. So, I’d pluck leaves from the fig trees and put them in the pan for collard greens. I gathered fallen figs and pretended they were field peas, scooping them into the pot with pride. I was a one-girl kitchen crew, barefoot and covered in mud, cooking a feast for Rex, our dog, my invisible guests, and the spirit of the trees.

I played alone, but I was never lonely.

There was a wholeness in that solitude. A joyfulness that didn’t need permission or performance. It was instinctual. Natural. Divine. I wasn’t trying to be productive. I wasn’t trying to earn validation. I wasn’t trying to be anything other than me. And, because of that, I felt free.

I didn’t know it then, but those muddy hands and leaf-made greens were teaching me something I would later have to relearn as an adult: joy doesn’t require an audience, and creativity doesn’t need a purpose.

As women, especially as Black women, we are often taught to grow up fast. We learn how to be useful, how to take care of others, how to hustle, how to show up for everyone else. Somewhere along the way, we trade our mud pies for meeting agendas, our fig leaves for deadlines, and our freedom for “function.”

But I believe every woman has a version of that muddy little girl still living inside her. She still wants to play. To create. To laugh loud. To make messes. To be held by the simplicity of joy without explanation. And now, as a grown woman, I’m learning to return to her.

When I light a candle and let myself journal without editing, little me smiles. When I dance in my kitchen with the inner rhythm of my soul, she joins me. When I sit under trees with bare feet and let my spirit breathe, she leans in close and whispers, “You remember.” 

That’s what I call coming home to self. It’s not a place we travel to, but a space we return to. A remembering. A re-rooting. A reconnection with the piece of ourselves we had to hide or abandon in order to survive.

These days, I try to make space for that girl. I give her permission to play. I let her be messy. I let her be loud. I let her feel. Sometimes that means going outside barefoot and walking around in my yard, touching every leaf in my garden just because I want to. Other times, it’s as simple as taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon without guilt. Or pouring a glass of lemonade and sitting in silence, listening to the summer hum the same way it did all those years ago.

It doesn’t have to be complicated, Sis. Reclaiming joy doesn’t require a plane ticket or a retreat. Sometimes, it just invites us to close our eyes, take a deep breath, and ask ourselves, “What would my inner child love today?”

For me, that little girl still loves leaves. She still loves dirt. She still loves feeling free.

Sis, drop a comment below and tell us — what would your inner child love today? We want to hear about what makes you have fun and feel free?!