That One Sleepover We All Remember
Remember that sleepover? You know the one. We were fourteen, way too old to be watching Hi-5, but there we were in our Elmo and Cookie Monster pyjamas, dancing like goblins and eating Cheezels straight from the box while singing along to Meredith Brooks “Bitch”. We laughed until we cried, stayed up until the birds were chirping, and didn’t care that our bras were from Best & Less and our hair was full of butterfly clips and chaos.
We weren’t cool, and we knew it. But god, we were free. There was something so beautifully unhinged about those nights. We weren’t worried about being aesthetically pleasing or curating a personality for Instagram*. We were just existing, in the purest, weirdest, most feral version of ourselves. And honestly? That version was perfection.
Then it all changed. Boys. Maybelline quick sticks. Rimmel Soft Kohl in Jet Black. We started growing up, whatever that meant. Suddenly our chaos had to be filtered. Our bras became lacey. And our feral joy had to be tamed, polished, palatable. Instead of embracing the parts of ourselves that felt fun and loud and real, we began moulding ourselves into what we thought grown-up women should be.
*This was the 90’s and social media was ICQ. And yes, I still remember my ICQ Number: 15405100.
The Quiet Theft of Joy
Fast forward a couple of (dozen) years. I was catching up with my high school bestie before I moved to Adelaide. The same one who used to quote Little Rascals and had a deep love for Ren & Stimpy. She’d always been a ball of silly, wild, outrageous energy. But this time, she was quiet. Tired. Like the colour had been drained out of her.
She told me her ex-husband used to mock her for liking cartoons. Said she needed to “grow up” and “act her age.” Slowly, she stopped quoting silly shows. Stopped wearing quirky earrings. Stopped buying fun socks. All the little things that made her feel like herself. And for what? So some mediocre man could feel more in control?
It hit me then. We’re allowed to grow and evolve, yes. But we don’t have to sacrifice joy in the process. Especially not the weird, unfiltered joy that society tries to shame out of us. The joy that smells like bubblegum lipgloss and feels like shouting Destiny’s Child lyrics out a moving car window. The joy that makes us feel alive.
Joy Isn’t Just for Children (Or Men)
Let’s be real. Men get to keep their hobbies. They get entire man caves, for goodness sake. Grown men can collect Marvel figurines, play Call of Duty until 3am, or spend thousands on fishing gear, and nobody bats an eye. But when we, the elder millennial women, want to wear glitter or watch cartoons or buy a Hello Kitty toaster, it’s suddenly seen as childish. Immature. Embarrassing.
Why? Because society still polices our joy. It still tells us to be small, sensible, tidy. To only be loud in ways that make others comfortable. To dress for approval, not for delight. To age gracefully, not playfully. And yet, inside so many of us is a little chaos goblin in a pair of fuzzy slippers screaming to be let out.
Here’s the truth. There’s nothing immature about loving something with your whole heart. About finding joy in the weird, the colourful, the nostalgic. In fact, reclaiming that joy is one of the most powerful things you can do. Especially in a world that keeps telling you to water yourself down.
How I Reclaimed My Own Feral Joy
For years, I thought I had to be gentle and beige. My blog, my brand, even my mindset was all about soft morning light and perfectly folded linen. And don’t get me wrong, I am still heavily addicted to green tea and the occasional silent retreat. But the truth is, I also cry over laksa in Coles. I wear oversized t-shirts with cute animals on laundry day and blast 90s ballads while I clean the house. I am, in fact, slightly unhinged. And I like it that way.
I didn’t come back to myself with beige journals and vision boards. I bought Funko Vinyl Pop figures. I rewatched Lady Lovely Locks on YouTube, half in awe, half wondering how I survived the fashion. I played Sims Medieval and gleefully threw every peasant I could into the pit for being mildly annoying. I didn’t light a candle or meditate. I reconnected with the little goblin inside me who loves mischief and nostalgia and slightly unhinged play. I didn’t do it for the aesthetic. I did it because it was bloody fun.
And you know what happened? I felt more like myself than I had in years. The fog lifted. The pressure eased. I started laughing from my belly again. Not the polite chuckles, but the snort-laughs that make your eyes water. My joy was back. Ferocious, ridiculous, untameable joy. And she was glorious.
Give Yourself Permission to Be Feral
If you’ve been feeling flat or beige or disconnected from yourself lately, maybe it’s not depression. Maybe it’s repression. Maybe the part of you that used to find magic in midnight rice pudding (I miss you bestie Libra and our 14 year old Chaos Goblin selves xx) and sticker books is just waiting for you to stop pretending you’re someone you’re not. Maybe you’ve just forgotten how fun you used to be.
You don’t need to do a full aesthetic overhaul. You don’t need to make it productive. You don’t need to justify it. You just need to give yourself permission to play. Wear the weird earrings. Sing in the car. Watch trash TV while eating cereal out of a mug. Let your joy be messy and bright and obnoxious. And the best part? We’ve got adult money now. No more waiting on that $5.05 per hour Macca’s pay to save up for a $12 DVD. You can buy the thing, wear the thing, watch the thing, and do it all without a hint of apology.
You are not too old. You are not too much. You are not silly for loving silly things. You are a whole, brilliant, brilliant being with an entire archive of past versions of yourself still living inside you. And some of them? Are absolute goblins. Let them come out to play.
A Few Sparks to Reignite Your Feral Joy
Start small. What did you love when you were twelve? Stickers? Bubble baths? Anime? Bring a piece of it back. Rewatch your favourite childhood show without shame. Eat fairy bread for breakfast. Text your old friends and reminisce about how chaotic you used to be together.
Make space for spontaneous fun. Not every moment needs to be curated or aesthetic. Get messy. Bake something you’ll probably burn. Try rollerblading again. Dance in your lounge room in your socks. Laugh until your mascara runs and you look like a raccoon. These are the moments that bring life back into our bones.
And remember: your joy doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else. If it lights you up, it matters. That glittery, rebellious, 2am snack-loving version of you isn’t gone. She’s just been waiting. So go find her. Hug her. Let her run loose. And maybe buy her that glitter pen set she always wanted.
If grown men get man caves, I get a brightly coloured shrine to She-Rah and no one can stop me.
Your Joy, Your Rules
We grew up too fast. Most of us didn’t have a choice. We were busy navigating divorce, heartbreak, trauma, exams, weight issues, and unrealistic beauty standards before we even knew what boundaries were. Many of us were being preyed on by older men and, thanks to movies and magazines, thought it was flattering instead of predatory. We didn’t get the luxury of an extended childhood. But we can give ourselves the gift of a joyful adulthood.
Let it be feral. Let it be loud. Let it be silly. Stop waiting for permission. It’s your life. Your joy. Your rules. No one gets to decide what makes you feel alive but you.
So go on, wear the Cookie Monster pyjamas. Blast the Hi-5 theme tune. Stick rhinestones on your water bottle. And live your glorious, goblin-core life.
For the honour of Greyskull, You’ve earned it.
We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity
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