What If the Stories You Read to Your Kids Were Meant for You Too?

Hidden between picture-book pages are the reminders we didn’t know we needed—about growth, empathy, and slowing down.

When my son first came across the characters Joy and Sadness at Disneyland, he looked… troubled. You know that look, the one that settles on a child's face when they're processing something that doesn't quite fit their world yet.

He loved Joy immediately—her bright yellow glow seemed to match his usual sunny disposition, and he reached for her without hesitation. But Sadness, with her soft blue fabric and inverted smile, made him pause. He didn't seem to take a liking to her, yet something kept drawing him back to that particular aisle. His tiny fingers would trail along the shelf edge as he studied her, returning again and again to something he couldn't quite name.

We bought him the Joy soft toy—its plush warmth instantly pressed against his chest in a tight hug—and headed out into the dry California heat. The scent of popcorn and sugar wafted through the air as we walked past churro stands, the familiar Disney magic swirling around us. A good 10 minutes later, as carousel music played in the distance, he suddenly stopped mid-stride.

"I need Sadness, too," he insisted, tugging at my sleeve with surprising urgency.

Confused about why he wanted a toy he didn't seem to like, we retraced our steps through the crowded pathways back to that air-conditioned store and got it for him anyway.

When I asked him why he needed Sadness too, he cradled both toys in his arms and said, "Sadness is sad. Joy is Sadness friend. Now she's happy, amma."

He wasn’t trying to be profound. He wasn’t reciting anything he’d been taught. A three-and-a-half-year-old had simply grasped something about companionship and empathy that many of us adults are still learning.

He wanted Sadness to have a friend to cheer her up.

And just like that, my understanding of empathy stretched a little wider. Becoming a mother had already opened my eyes to the profound truths hiding in plain sight within children's worlds. But that moment helped me grow further.

It made me think of all the books we read together, the ones with torn pages and softened covers, their spines tired from being opened again and again. The Very Hungry Caterpillar is one of them. It’s not a new story in our home, but lately I’ve been noticing how these simple children’s books subtly teach things adults spend years trying to learn and inculcate.

Repetition isn’t boring—it’s grounding. The caterpillar's repeated journey through different foods might seem mundane at first glance, but it’s the kind of comforting predictability that kids crave and adults often resist.

Yet in routines, rituals, and rhythms, there’s an undeniable sense of calm. Whether it’s your morning pages, a meditation session, or a daily walk, consistency brings stability.

Big change comes slowly. The transformation from egg to cocoon to butterfly is a gradual process. Nothing happens overnight. That’s true for healing, learning a new skill, or even growing a business.

Sometimes, it’s easy to lose sight of progress when it's slow or invisible, but the key is trusting the process. Steady growth always leads somewhere meaningful.

Focus creates transformation. The caterpillar’s singular mission is to eat and grow—nothing else. No distractions, no multitasking. It’s a beautiful reminder that our biggest breakthroughs often happen when we focus on doing less, not more.

By saying “no” to everything except what truly matters, we can experience real transformation.

These aren’t just bedtime stories we’re reading.

They’re mirrors reflecting what we forget in the rush to be adults:
To feel deeply, grow slowly, love freely, and focus fully.

They don’t just shape kids, they shape us, too—if only we let them.

Sometimes, you need a caterpillar. Sometimes, you need a Sadness plush.
And sometimes, even oftentimes, you need only listen to a toddler’s heart to remember what being human is really about.

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Hi, I’m Swathi — a mom, writer, and fellow traveller in the world of slow, intentional living.

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