“All grown-ups were once children… but only few of them remember it.” I was seven years old when I first heard that line, sitting between my mother and father as we watched The Little Prince (2016) together. I turned my head to look at them, and for a moment, I saw something in them I’d never seen before. Being a kid, I didn’t know much about adults. At the time, I thought being an adult meant drinking alcohol, driving cars (maybe not both at once), and voting for the president. But what I felt in that quiet moment wasn’t something I could see—it was something I sensed in my heart: their longing for a kind of peace they once knew; the same peace I had the privilege of feeling right at that moment—the tranquility of childhood. I felt lucky to still be young, yet I also felt a deep sorrow for them. My mother had sacrificed everything to come to America. Leaving her home country of Iran, she arrived as a student before I was even born, so that one day I could live a safer, easier life. She raised me alone while attending law school, always making sure I felt protected and loved in the way she never was. She left her family behind for me—she left her childhood memories to give me a better life. And when I turned to my father, I remembered running toward him at the airport with a bouquet in my hand—one of sunflowers. When my father was a teenager, he helped sell sunflowers on the street as a part of his family’s business in addition to all the other items we sold. In between sales, he would get taught how to solve a Rubik’s Cube by his father; solving puzzles was his specialty when he was younger. At the grand age of four years old, that was the first time I had ever seen him in person, apart from the pixelated Skype calls from him in Dubai. That was the first time he held me—and the first time I held him. Watching The Little Prince (2016) reminded me, even as a child, that my parents were once children, too. I forget that sometimes. I forget that they’re still figuring life out as much as I am. Time moves slowly for me. I’m still learning, still growing. But for them, so much of their time has already been spent. That moment made a quiet but lasting impact. Years later, when I rewatched the movie, it struck me again—this time more personally. Somewhere along the way, I had started to forget that I was still a kid. I got caught up in responsibilities, achievements, and pressure to grow up fast. But deep down, I still knew how to love without hesitation, to forgive easily, to wonder without needing answers. And I realized: I was at risk of losing that part of myself forever. So I made a promise. I promised I would keep that version of me alive. I would make space for wonder—by looking up at the sky, asking questions, daydreaming without shame. I would hold onto kindness by choosing empathy over judgment. I would forgive, again and again, even when it’s hard. I would slow down and really see the people I love—not as roles they play, but as people still trying, still learning, just like me. The Little Prince didn’t just show me who I was—it reminded me of who I didn’t want to forget. I can’t stop time, but I can decide to grow with my heart.