When Did We Stop Playing?

Last week I found myself covered in bright pink, yellow, and purple powder, laughing while throwing color at friends, parents, teachers and kids at school.

If you’ve ever seen photos of Holi celebrations in India, you know the images. Clouds of color in the air. People dancing. Faces streaked with paint. Laughter everywhere. It’s a festival that welcomes the arrival of spring, a joyful celebration of renewal and life after winter.

For years I had seen those images and thought, one day I would love to experience something like that.

So when I learned that our school community would be celebrating Holi, I was so excited! The idea of welcoming spring in such a playful, colorful way felt irresistible.

Earlier that morning, I had started my day in a new way. I went to a yoga class I had never tried before, a 7 a.m. class with a teacher I didn’t know. At the beginning of the practice, she asked us to set an intention for the day.

Without thinking too much about it, mine was simple: fun and play.

I already knew the Holi celebration was happening later at school, so maybe that planted the seed. But standing there hours later, covered in color and laughing with other parents and kids, I couldn’t help but smile at the way life sometimes responds to the energy we set.

People were tossing colored powders into the air, rubbing bright pigments onto each other’s faces, dancing to music, laughing freely. At times flowers were thrown too, petals floating down through the clouds of color. It felt joyful, spontaneous, alive.

At one point, the eight-year-old son of a friend was visibly annoyed. He didn’t want to get dirty.

His mother laughed and said, “Sometimes the adults want to have fun too.”

And she was right.

Watching the scene unfold, I noticed something fascinating. Many of the adults were the ones leaning into the moment the most. Throwing colors. Dancing badly. Smearing powder across faces.

And it felt almost strange to be that playful.

Because somewhere along the way, many of us forget how.

Two days before this celebration, my daughter performed in her school’s first improv show in front of about two hundred people. A group of middle schoolers and high school students standing in front of an audience, making things up in real time. Being silly. Being bold. Being willing to look ridiculous in front of a crowd.

As I watched them, I thought what an extraordinary exercise that is for young people.

To learn early in life that it’s safe to be playful.

To be spontaneous.

To say something imperfect and keep going.

To laugh at yourself.

During intermission, the students invited parents outside to participate in a few improv games with them. Suddenly we were standing there in small groups making things up on the spot, saying ridiculous things, laughing, not taking ourselves too seriously.

And again, something inside me relaxed.

It felt good.

Really good.

Not because anyone was being impressive. But because for a moment, the pressure we often carry as adults disappeared. The pressure to be polished. To be correct. To be composed.

For a moment, we were just being human.

If you’d like to hear this story in a more personal way, I recorded a short 7-minute episode where I share this experience and reflection out loud. You can listen to it here.

One of the things that made me fall in love with my husband many years ago is exactly this quality. He looks at life with humor. He reminds me to be silly, to be playful,to joke, to not take everything so seriously. Over the years, he has kept that part of me alive when responsibility, work, and adulthood tried to bury it under layers of seriousness.

And watching the children this week reminded me how important that is.

Because children naturally know how to live this way.

They know how to be goofy, curious, spontaneous.

They know how to turn a moment into play.

Until the world slowly teaches them otherwise.

Sit still.

Be proper.

Don’t be embarrassing.

Don’t be messy.

Don’t be loud.

Somewhere along the way, many of us stop giving ourselves permission to be joyful.

And maybe we should be learning more from the children in our lives instead. Watching them more closely. Letting them remind us how to loosen up, how to laugh at nothing, how to turn an ordinary moment into something playful.

At one point during the celebration I kicked off my sandals and walked barefoot through the grass. The ground was soft, damp, and muddy under my feet. By the time I left, the bottoms of my feet were completely black from the dirt. Later that night in the shower I tried scrubbing them clean, but some of the marks stayed.

And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

Maybe it’s a reminder. A little trace of color and earth that says: today you played.

We live in a time where it’s very easy to open the news and feel overwhelmed by division, conflict, and the endless stream of problems facing the world. Those realities are real and deserve attention.

But moments like this remind me of something equally real.

Human beings are also capable of joy. Of celebration. Of laughter with strangers. Of color flying through the air while people dance together under the sun.

What we choose to focus on expands. And maybe moments like this deserve more of our attention.

While we cannot ignore the world’s challenges, we also need spaces that remind us what we are protecting in the first place.

Connection.

Joy.

Play.

Spring celebrations like Holi exist in many cultures for a reason. They mark renewal. The turning of a season. A reminder that life continues, that light returns, that community matters.

Maybe we need those rituals now more than ever.

Not just for children.

But for us.

So here’s a small invitation.

Find a child in your life. A niece, a nephew, a grandchild, a neighbor’s kid. Sit with them for a while. Watch how they play. Watch how easily they laugh. Watch how quickly they turn the simplest thing into joy.

And maybe let them remind you how to do the same.

With love and courage,

Tania ❤️💫

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