1/9/25

Last week I was at a reps trial for cricket, and what struck me wasn’t the skill level, the competition, or even the pressure of the moment - it was the silence. Not a single smile cracked across the nets. Every face was tight, every movement calculated. Nobody laughed. Nobody looked like they were having fun. I got clean bowled first ball (bad start, I know), and the bowler who knocked me over barely cracked a grin. You’d think sending a batter’s stumps flying would earn at least a smirk, but nothing. Just the same blank expression, like joy had been outlawed.

I get it. For some, this is more than just a game. It’s a shot at a team, a dream, maybe even a future. But the joy was gone. The spark that makes a sport a sport - that raw, chaotic love for the game - was nowhere to be found. And that’s what unsettled me the most. Somewhere along the way, we decided it’s cooler to be stoic than excited, more respectable to be composed than passionate. But why?

I don’t think this problem is unique to cricket. Look around and you’ll see the same scene playing out everywhere. The theater kid who used to belt out every song at rehearsal now mutters through the lyrics to avoid looking “too into it.” The student who used to bounce with excitement to answer a question now sits back, afraid of seeming like they care too much. The gamer who once played for the thrill now streams with a detached, ironic tone to avoid seeming “cringe.” It’s like enthusiasm has become a social liability.

When did we decide that nonchalance was the highest form of social currency?

There’s a cultural shift happening - one that tells us passion is dangerous because it makes you vulnerable. If you show you care, you open yourself up to mockery, judgment, or rejection. So, instead, we learn to shrug. We hide behind sarcasm, irony, and a constant performance of indifference. And for teenagers especially, this is poison.

Childhood is supposed to be wild. Messy. Joyful. It’s meant to be a time where you scream yourself hoarse on the playground, where you celebrate a goal like you just won the World Cup, where you belt out songs you only halfway know. But now? Kids are being taught, whether directly or indirectly, that the safest way to exist is to act like nothing impresses you. That everything is “mid,” that trying too hard is embarrassing, that fun is for losers. And when that mindset takes root early, it doesn’t stay contained.

We grow into adults who are afraid to commit to anything deeply. We chase careers because they’re safe, not because they light a fire in us. We get caught in relationships where vulnerability feels like weakness. We numb ourselves with entertainment, scrolling endlessly not because we’re interested but because it’s easier than actually caring. All because somewhere along the way, we decided that caring was a risk we weren’t willing to take.

That cricket trial stuck with me because it was a perfect snapshot of this cultural shift. Here we were, a group of teenagers playing a sport we all supposedly loved, and you wouldn’t know it from looking at us. I’m not saying everyone needed to be skipping around, grinning ear to ear - competition is serious. But somewhere between “focused” and “lifeless,” we’ve overcorrected. We’ve turned childhood into a performance of adulthood: composed, calculated, and drained of wonder.

There’s a certain tragedy in that. Think about it: for so many kids, sports are supposed to be an escape. Music is supposed to be an outlet. Games are supposed to be fun. Yet those very things that should ignite passion are now just arenas where we act like we don’t care. And in pretending not to care, we lose the very thing we came for.

I think part of the problem is that we’re terrified of being seen as “cringe.” That word has become a weapon. People use it to shame anyone who expresses themselves openly. And so, to survive, we self-censor. We flatten ourselves. We strip away our color and personality until all that’s left is a gray, acceptable version of us - one that can’t be mocked because it never risks being interesting. But that safety comes at a cost. You can’t be passionate and safe at the same time.

If you’ve ever been around a little kid, you’ll know what I mean. They don’t care if their favorite dinosaur obsession is weird. They don’t care if they’re bad at drawing or if their singing is off-key. They do it anyway because they love it. And it’s beautiful. There’s no irony, no calculation, just pure, unfiltered passion. Yet somewhere around middle school, that joy starts leaking out of us. We trade our laughter for a well-practiced blank stare. We trade curiosity for cynicism. And then we wonder why life feels dull.

This is why I think my neighbors are an incredible picture of real childhood. They’re two brothers, probably around 8 to 12 years old, and I’ll often hear them celebrating a backyard goal or cheering over a basketball shot. That unfiltered excitement is rare. But why is it that this kind of joy has to fade away?

The death of childhood isn’t marked by birthdays or milestones. It’s marked by that quiet moment where we decide it’s better to look bored than to look alive. And passion? Passion dies the same way.

It doesn’t take much to see how this plays out long-term. We’re building a generation of teenagers who are afraid to look like they care. And that fear bleeds into everything: their faith, their friendships, their future careers. If you’ve ever sat in a classroom where the teacher is practically begging for someone to answer, you know what I’m talking about. If you’ve ever been to a party where everyone is glued to their phone, not because they’re shy but because it’s safer than being seen, you’ve felt it too.

So what do we do? We fight for fun. We fight for wonder. We risk being “cringe.”

I’ve started to realize that life is far too short to pretend you don’t care about things you love. Getting bowled first ball should sting, sure, but it should also be funny. The bowler should grin. The teammates should laugh. The air should be filled with more than this stiff, lifeless sense of performance. Because that’s what life is when we strip out joy - a performance.

I don’t think I’ve ever had more fun than the time we had a house vs house singing competition at school, belting Frozen songs with my friends. Or the day my friend and I got up in front of the whole school and reenacted the proposal scene between Hans and Anna from Frozen. It was ridiculous, hilarious, and unforgettable. Yet this era of nonchalantness tells us to throw moments like that away. To stop singing childhood songs. To stop having fun if it risks looking a little silly.

Maybe that’s the invitation here. To stop performing. To stop trying so hard to look like we’re above it all. To actually let ourselves care again. It’s not just about sports or hobbies or school. It’s about choosing to live fully. Choosing to be vulnerable enough to say, “Yeah, I love this thing, even if you don’t.”

And maybe, just maybe, that kind of passion could bring childhood back to life.