In the spirit of the Lunar New Year, I find myself cleaning my study, a task steeped in tradition. Among the scattered papers and that pile of books that I no longer use, a book titled 69°N 51°W catches my eye. Initially, I dismiss it, but as I scroll through Instagram, videos about Greenland begin to envelop me. I set my phone aside and close my eyes for a brief nap, only to have the book resurface in my thoughts. Instantly, a wave of childhood memories comes rushing back, vivid and nostalgic…

The book is about Ricky Lai, the writer who ventured into the mysterious island of Greenland in search of himself and the stories that unfolded during his journey. Frankly speaking, I must confess that the book was not as interesting as I thought, and even dull for my age at that time. However, its true significance lies not just in the words written on the pages but in the stories behind them.

It was either 2017 or 2018, during a post-exam event, when our school invited Ricky Lai to share his experiences with us. The book, undeniably misaligned with our age group, led many of my classmates to chatter and play throughout the session. Yet I found myself captivated by the illustrations—all drawn by Mr Lai—and the story. Mr Lai spoke of how his journey in Greenland transformed him and shared the inspiration behind his work. The dreamlike images of the northern lights and his tales of couch surfing resonated deeply within me, compelling me to beg my mom for a copy afterwards.

After finally getting my book, I turned the pages with excitement, dreaming that one day I might travel to Greenland. This enthusiasm captured only a snapshot of my entire childhood—a time marked by endless joy and carefree days. However, as I stepped into an older age, the essence of “carefree” began to fade.

The reality of homework and exams swiftly invaded my life, each assignment piling onto the next. Things only worsened when I entered the so-called “elite class”, a class reserved for the top 27 students in the entire grade. I was branded with labels like “bookworm” by my old friends and “elite” by my teachers, carrying the weight of everyone’s expectations. Yet, despite being a part of the “elite class”, my grades plummeted significantly. Once a top contender, I slipped from the top three, then the top ten, and ultimately landed in the realm of the 27.

The pressure was suffocating, and the carefree joys of childhood began to feel like a distant memory, overshadowed by the relentless demands of academic excellence. I still remember the class slogan “VENI, VIDI, VICI”, which captured the spirit of achievement, yet I found myself feeling utterly “vici”—defeated by the very schoolwork that was meant to elevate me.

As time elapsed, a decade later, I often ponder whether I am now a better person, but I find myself unsure. The relentless pursuit of grades and accolades has often eclipsed the essence of who I once was. In the quiet moments of reflection, I realise how deeply I owe my current self to my childhood—the carefree days filled with laughter, exploration, and the unfiltered joy of living. Those innocent years fostered a spirit of curiosity and imagination that shaped the core of my being. Back then, the world seemed expansive and full of possibilities. I remember a time when creativity flowed freely, unburdened by the weight of expectations or the fear of failure.

While I’ve gained knowledge and skills over the years, I sometimes feel an emptiness where that joyful childhood wonder used to reside. I cherish those early memories and feel an ever-present longing for the simplicity and authenticity of my younger self. Despite the complexities of adulthood, I carry a profound gratitude for my childhood, which taught me to dream and aspire, and I wish I could reclaim even a fragment of that blissful innocence.

“Childhood is a short season.”

                                                    — Helen Hayes