If You Know This, Your Childhood Was Rough

Finding trumpet worm nests in the dirt wasn’t just a childhood pastime. It wasn’t a silly game to kill time. It was survival disguised as wonder, hope hidden beneath our fingernails, and an adventure only kids without much could truly understand. While other children vanished behind glowing screens, tapping on devices they didn’t appreciate, we disappeared into the earth itself. We chased small miracles with bare hands, scraped knees, and hearts that believed even the tiniest creature could turn an ordinary day into something unforgettable.

We didn’t fully understand it back then—not the way adults analyze everything—but each tiny nest we uncovered rewired us. It reshaped how we saw joy, struggle, and what truly mattered in a world that didn’t always make room for kids like us.

We grew up where luxury lived behind other people’s doors, where the smell of new plastic toys came from store shelves instead of birthdays, and where video games were a rare neighborly favor. So we turned to what we had: the dirt beneath our feet, open fields, muddy patches after rainfall, quiet corners under old trees. Trumpet worm nests became treasure chests—proof that magic existed even when money didn’t, that wonder wasn’t bought but stumbled upon if you dared to look closely enough.

We weren’t just digging for worms; we were digging for pieces of ourselves. We learned to share discoveries, to yell with excitement when a friend found a nest first, to cheer instead of envy, to compete without cruelty. We learned to turn boredom into curiosity, and curiosity into joy. Every handful of dirt was a chance to feel victorious, to feel capable, to feel rich in a way no store-bought toy could ever give us.

Those days carved something unshakable into us. Hardship didn’t simply surround our childhood—it shaped our character, pressed resilience into our bones, and taught us a gratitude that lasts a lifetime. While others grew up expecting comfort, we grew up creating it. While others needed amusement handed to them, we found it in the smallest corners of the world.

Even now, years later, when life feels heavy and adult responsibilities pile up like unpayable debts, we remember muddy hands, sunburned shoulders, and afternoons when laughter echoed louder than any worry. We remember fragile nests cradled like gold, feeling as if we’d uncovered secret miracles meant only for us.

That’s our quiet superpower: the ability to find beauty in small things, joy in unexpected places, and strength in moments no one else notices. It’s the gift of growing up with little—because it taught us how to see everything.