The Beautiful Mind
Remembering the Part of You That Never Forgot
There is a part of us that still remembers.
The smell of summer rain hanging in the air before the first drops fell.
The excitement of running barefoot outside and getting completely soaked because joy mattered more than dry clothes.
Laughing until your stomach hurt.
Sleeping under the stars.
Knowing it was time to come home when the streetlights flickered on.
There was an innocence that existed before mobile phones.
Before notifications.
Before algorithms.
Before technology became so woven into our lives that silence itself became unfamiliar.
Back then curiosity wasn't something we practised.
It was simply who we were.
We spent hours in fields and along quiet streets trying to catch butterflies and crickets, placing them gently beneath glass jars so we could marvel at them before setting them free again.
We brought injured animals home and hid them from our parents.
Sneaking food to them.
Nursing them back to health.
Watching life return to their eyes before releasing them back into the world.
We wandered beaches and forests inventing stories.
There were giant yetis.
Ghosts hiding in old buildings.
Secret worlds waiting to be discovered.
Entire universes existing just beyond the boundaries of our backyards.
Our minds were never content with what was directly in front of us.
They wanted to understand.
To imagine.
To explore.
To ask.
To wonder.
Everything was interesting.
Everything held possibility.
Everything contained mystery.
And perhaps that is what I miss most.
Not childhood itself.
But the relationship I had with life.
Looking at everything through the eyes of wonder.
Through the eyes of awe.
Through the eyes of a child who understood instinctively that the world was far bigger than what could be seen.
That curiosity became a refuge.
A place to escape.
A place to breathe.
A place to survive.
Even during difficult times.
Even during grief.
Even during the long quiet hospital visits where children were expected to sit still, stay quiet and not make too much noise.
Even there, we found ways to seek out the strange and wonderful.
We asked questions.
We made stories.
We searched for meaning.
We remained fascinated by life despite its heartbreak.
Especially because of its heartbreak.
When my mother was ill and during those final days, curiosity never disappeared.
If anything, it deepened.
Questions became companions.
Why are we here?
What happens when we die?
What exists beyond what we can see?
What is consciousness?
What is memory?
What remains after loss?
Nothing was off limits.
Nothing was too strange.
Nothing was too deep.
And that hunger for understanding never left.
It has followed me through every chapter of my life.
It led me to the mountains of Peru.
To the ancient stones of Machu Picchu.
To Japan and the sacred cemeteries of Mount Koya.
To the Catskills in the United States.
Across Europe.
Back to Poland.
Back to my roots.
Back to the stories that existed long before I did.
Some of my strongest memories are from childhood winters in Poland.
Sliding through snow-covered fields.
Jumping from rafters into enormous haystacks.
Running until my lungs burned from the cold air.
Feeling completely alive.
There was adventure.
Wonder.
Freedom.
But there was also grief.
Loss arrived early.
Parents.
A cousin.
Questions that no child should have to carry.
The uncertainty that comes when life teaches impermanence too soon.
Perhaps that is why knowledge became so important.
Because knowledge felt empowering.
If I could understand something, I could make sense of it.
If I could learn, I could navigate it.
If I could ask questions, I could find my way through it.
Curiosity became more than a personality trait.
It became a survival strategy.
A compass.
A light.
A doorway.
And throughout my life that beautiful curious mind continued opening doors.
Books became portals.
Teachers became guides.
Spiritual practices became maps.
Travel became initiation.
Experience became education.
Every question led to another question.
Every answer revealed a deeper mystery.
The older I become, the more I realise that certainty was never the goal.
Understanding was never the goal.
The goal was always expansion.
Because life is not a puzzle to be solved.
It is a mystery to be experienced.
The modern world often asks us to become certain.
To choose a side.
To define ourselves.
To fit into categories.
To build identities.
To belong to tribes.
But my most meaningful experiences have happened outside certainty.
Outside identity.
Outside conformity.
Along roads that made no sense to anyone except me.
The road less travelled.
The path curiosity chose before logic could interfere.
And perhaps that is what all of these blogs have really been about.
Not healing.
Not identity.
Not neuroplasticity.
Not spirituality.
Not even awakening.
They have all been pointing toward the same thing.
Remembering.
Remembering the beautiful mind that existed before fear.
Before conditioning.
Before performance.
Before approval became more important than truth.
Before belonging became more important than authenticity.
The beautiful mind that never stopped asking questions.
The beautiful mind that still looks at the stars and wonders.
The beautiful mind that still feels awe standing in ancient places.
The beautiful mind that still believes there is more to discover.
Because despite everything life has brought—
the losses.
The heartbreaks.
The betrayals.
The health challenges.
The uncertainty.
There is a part of me that never forgot.
A part that still becomes excited by possibility.
A part that still follows curiosity down unexpected paths.
A part that still believes wonder is wisdom.
Perhaps that part exists within all of us.
Waiting patiently beneath the noise.
Beneath the conditioning.
Beneath the responsibilities.
Beneath the expectations.
Beneath the stories we have been told about who we should be.
Waiting for us to remember.
As I look back now, I can see that the curious woman standing in Machu Picchu was the same curious little girl standing in a field in Poland.
The woman studying neuroplasticity and consciousness was the same child sitting quietly in hospital corridors asking questions far bigger than her years.
The woman seeking wisdom from shamans, healers and spiritual teachers was the same child looking beneath rocks, chasing butterflies and wondering what secrets the world was hiding.
Nothing was added.
Nothing was created.
Nothing was missing.
Only remembered.
Perhaps that is why this journey feels less like transformation and more like return.
The older I become, the more I see life through the teachings of the Medicine Wheel.
Not as a straight line moving from one destination to another.
But as a circle.
A sacred cycle.
Moving through seasons.
Moving through stages.
Returning again and again to the same places, carrying new understanding.
The child becomes the seeker.
The seeker becomes the student.
The student becomes the teacher.
The teacher becomes the elder.
And eventually the elder remembers the wisdom of the child.
The circle closes.
Only to begin again.
Perhaps healing was never about becoming someone new.
Perhaps awakening was never about finding answers.
Perhaps sacred rage was never about fighting.
Perhaps the body was never betraying us.
Perhaps curiosity was never something we lost.
Maybe every road, every lesson, every heartbreak, every question, every journey across oceans and mountains, every spiritual initiation, every loss and every awakening was leading us back to the same place.
Back to the beautiful mind.
Back to wonder.
Back to imagination.
Back to curiosity.
Back to the child who looked at the world with awe and knew instinctively that there was more.
More to discover.
More to learn.
More to experience.
More to become.
Not through striving.
Not through performance.
But through presence.
And maybe that is what coming home truly means.
To realise that after everything life has taken, changed, challenged and transformed—
the most beautiful part of you was never lost.
It was simply waiting patiently for you to remember.
Waiting for you to come full circle.
Waiting for you to come home.
with Love
Julia Longin