The Farmhouse Letters: Finding Myself in a Childhood Summer

Where I First Learned I Was Loved Without Performing

Summer holidays – freedom, frolic from sunrise to sunset, losing track of time, the sound of cicadas, and the feeling of grass under bare feet – these are the sensory touchstones of my childhood summers. But more than the activities themselves, I remember the feeling of being deeply connected – to my family, to nature, and to a sense of belonging. A huge part of that was the time spent with my grandparents.

I would write anything in the letters to them from Mumbai – call him pachyderm and her cotton ball softie. Not instant message like today’s DMs and WhatsApp. Just a one way message on piece of paper torn out from the notebook of tearable sheets. The one with punch holes in it. They waited with bated breath for these letters.

On my end, there was no expectation for them to write back. Grandad preserved these letters as mementos and re-read them with Grandma at tea. He would show them off to visitors, eliciting happy laughs and delight at the childish quality and lightness of spirit – the very version of ourselves we too often lose, as adults, under layers of “professionalism,” expectations, and the fear of being judged.

Those carelessly written, spur-of-the-moment notes brought joy to someone on the other side of the world. No judgement, no performance, no expectation. Just purity of emotion – candid confessions given and received in a joyful spirit, a connection built on the foundation of unconditional love.

Looking back, those letters were my most authentic self on paper. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone, curate an image, or count likes. I was simply me: silly, honest, unfiltered.

Being held in a space of no judgement in this way did something powerful to my psyche: it taught me that I was lovable without performing. When someone delights in your unfiltered self, your nervous system relaxes, your creativity opens up, and your inner critic quiets down. That early experience of being fully accepted is what so many of us are still searching for in adulthood.

Up there in the farmhouse, when the heatwave came, we ducked down for days in the 100‑year‑old house. It was a well-preserved relic with its own stories to tell. Every wall and corner spoke a story long held in its bosom for those who cared to smell it and feel the energy with their eyes closed. It was the one place where I didn’t feel I had to “be” anything – just myself. It was my sanctuary – a far cry from the concrete jungle of Mumbai where I grew up.

I didn’t realise it then, but those summers were anchoring me. My grandparents, their stories, their rituals, that old farmhouse – they were all threads tying me back to something bigger than my report cards or achievements. Heritage isn’t just about lineage; it’s about having a place and people that remind you who you are when the world tries to turn you into something else.

Turning Childhood Magic Into Rituals

Those summers weren’t just sweet memories; they were a blueprint for something I’ve been chasing as an adult: a life where I feel free, unjudged, and deeply myself. The question I keep coming back to is this: how do we recreate that feeling now, with emails, obligations, and everyone watching?

For many of us, reconnecting with our roots – through grandparents, old family stories, photos, recipes, or places – isn’t nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake; it’s a way of remembering the parts of ourselves we’ve abandoned.

How to recreate that childlike freedom as a grown-up

You can keep it simple and grounded in your story:

• Write “letters” again. Not emails, not DMs. Actual letters – either to yourself or to your family and friends. This becomes your private sanctuary of truth.
• Create a no-judgement space for yourself. Choose one mirror and talk to yourself. You could start by saying this – “This is how I really feel.”
• Build mini-sanctuaries. A corner of your home with a luxurious cushion, throw and a candle is all you need. With a cuppa in hand and no phone, let you mind wander and immerse yourself in your favourite activity/ hobby.
• Caring for animals – I used to love feeding the cows in the cowshed and chasing that one playful calf around, watching her personality emerge day by day. There was something grounding about being responsible for another living being and delighting in its quirks. As an adult, I recreated that feeling by bringing a puppy into my life. It’s not just “having a pet”; it’s the ritual of care—feeding, walking, training, watching this little creature’s habits, moods, and mischief.
• Treasure hunting in nature – We would wander in nature like little archaeologists, hunting for unusual stones, leaves, or artefacts, then compare our “finds” at the end of the day with cousins. As an adult, that same energy could look like geocaching, shell collecting at the beach, or even “urban treasure hunts” at weekend markets and op shops. The point is the search—moving slowly, paying attention, following your curiosity—and then sharing your finds with someone you love over coffee or dinner.
• Bush walks, myth, and local art – We would go bush walking and hill climbing, especially to places tied to mythological tales or local folklore and then buy local art and textiles from that area. It made the stories feel real, like we were walking inside them, taking a piece of that magic home. After the walk, visit a local maker’s market, gallery, or op shop in that area and buy one small piece of art, craft, or textile. Bring it home not as décor, but as a living reminder: “I went somewhere with a story today.

The activities have changed, but the essence hasn’t: curiosity, connection, and a kind of unapologetic playfulness. That’s what I’m really trying to reclaim

When was the last time you felt truly unjudged—by yourself or by someone else? Maybe it’s time to circle back to that version of ourselves – then choosing, deliberately, to bring her into our adult life

Think about it

Imagine what might shift in your life if you had just one space where you could show up with that same childish honesty again – no performance, no polish, just you.