“Wonder is the beginning of wisdom.” – Socrates
The sky was alive.
The Northern Lights didn’t appear, they erupted.
I remember standing there, frozen. It felt alive, as though the sky itself was breathing. My friends and I stood in stunned silence, trying to take it all in.
Electric green, and hints of purple swirled together in patterns so vibrant they felt otherworldly.
I felt an overwhelming sense of awe.
We’d had only that one night to chase the aurora, one chance.
While in Iceland, the conditions had to be perfect: no clouds, no light pollution, and just enough solar activity to be visible.
And I’m convinced that what I recieved that night was probably the most vibrant display of the northern lights that humanity has ever witnessed.
That night reminded me of something I’d lost—not just awe, but the ability to let myself feel it. Somewhere along the way, wonder had slipped through my fingers, traded for practicality, routine, and muscle memory.
- me
As kids, we’re encapsulated with wonder. It’s in every first experience—the first time you cross the street alone, the first time you stay up late, the first time you realize the world is bigger than you thought.
The first time I ever crossed the street, I looked both ways, the light changed, and I bolted across. I felt like I’d conquered something massive.
But the more you cross streets, the less special it feels. What once felt electric becomes ordinary. Nights that used to feel like adventures as a kid become just another time to run errands as an adult. The deli at 9 PM isn’t thrilling—it’s just another stop on your to-do list.
Growing up in Jamaica, Queens, my world was small. My playground was a fenced backyard, a stoop, or the occasional supervised trip to the park. Meanwhile, my friends from other cities talked about roaming freely, like kids on TV shows. My experience was more contained, but even within those limits, my wonder thrived.
I think that’s what we miss most about childhood, it’s not the age or the simplicity.
It’s the wonder.
The sense that everything is new, alive, and bursting with possibility. And as adults, it’s easy to believe we’ve outgrown it.
But that’s not true.
I learned some years ago thanks to some wonderful research presented on The Happiness Lab podcast, that the most vivid experience of joy comes from the feeling of happiness that accompanies something familiar, which for some time has not been felt.
Nostalgia, seems to be the greatest form of pleasantness within.
Wonder never left us, and awe can still be birthed.
Whales are my favorite animals, and tragically I have never seen one before.
But while in Maine this Summer, we decided to go, and like chasing the Northern Lights, it was a gamble. There’s no guarantee anything would show up. For at least an hour, we sailed forward, unsure if we’d see anything at all.
Then the call came: two fin whales spotted nearby.
We raced over, and there they were. Massive, graceful creatures that broke the surface of the water, exhaling mist into the sky.
Fin whales are the second-largest species on Earth, and seeing them felt like being in the presence of something ancient.
Something sacred.
And I noticed that feeling creeping in again, a reminder that the world is so much bigger and more incredible than we often allow ourselves to see.
When we stop hunting happiness we stumble into wonder.
-Jonathan the Buoyant