Favorite Childhood Memory

One of my favorite childhood memories is rooted in a time before smartphones, social media, or even reliable internet. I didn’t have access to technology until I was about sixteen years old, when flip phones became the standard tool for communication. Before then, life was analog, slower, and in many ways, far more vivid. There is a certain magic in remembering the feel of sun-warmed pavement under bare feet, the sound of screen doors slamming as friends ran in and out of the house, and the freedom of spending an entire day outside without a single digital interruption.

Growing up in the 90s was a world apart from today’s screen-saturated childhoods. Our sense of time was shaped by daylight, not by battery life. Entertainment came in the form of neighborhood games, sidewalk chalk, bike rides, and treehouse adventures. One of my favorite memories involves a simple game of hide-and-seek that lasted for hours as the sun dipped below the horizon. The game wasn’t about competition; it was about creativity, laughter, and connection. We made our own fun, invented our own rules, and relied entirely on our imaginations.

In contrast, children growing up now often have a digital presence before they even understand the concept. Their interactions are mediated through screens, likes, and curated content. While technology has undeniable benefits—such as instant access to information and the ability to stay connected across long distances—it also introduces challenges. Attention spans have shortened. Solitude is harder to find. The simple joy of being bored, and what it used to inspire—like drawing, writing, building forts, or inventing games—has largely been replaced by scrolling and passive consumption.

The ambiance of a 90s childhood was tactile and present. Friendships were built on shared physical experiences rather than online interactions. We passed notes in class, not messages on apps. If we wanted to know if our friends were home, we biked to their houses or called the family landline. There was something intimate and grounding about those interactions. Flip phones, when they eventually entered our lives, were just tools—no internet, no social media, no camera rolls full of curated snapshots. Communication remained intentional and limited, which, in hindsight, felt more human.

That memory of playing outside until dark, returning home tired and sun-kissed, remains one of the clearest and happiest moments from my childhood. It’s not just nostalgia—it’s a reflection of a different kind of childhood, one where moments were lived more fully because they weren’t being recorded or filtered. Today’s youth might have more technological conveniences, but there is something profoundly special about growing up without them—something I’ll always cherish.