I tried to heal my inner child because I had seen one too many videos where someone lights a candle, plays soft music, and speaks kindly to themselves like they’re narrating a gentle documentary, and my brain went, “Yes, we will do that, we will be emotionally evolved.”

So I decided to make it a whole moment. I was going to do inner child healing, and I was going to do it correctly, like there was a syllabus and I had studied. I even opened my notes app and wrote a tiny plan, because yes, I am fully capable of turning emotional care into a project.

The plan included a cozy movie, a journal prompt, maybe some calming tea, and definitely some kind words toward younger me, because that sounded beautiful. I wanted to feel softer, and I wanted the kind of comfort that doesn’t cost a lot but changes the air in your body.

Then I opened my freezer, saw a bag of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, and had the most honest inner child moment of my entire life.

Here’s the message that kept showing up from the first candle to the first crunchy bite: comfort can be silly and still real, and you don’t have to make healing look aesthetic for it to count.

The Mood That Made Me Think I Needed Something “Deep”

I think I reach for “healing” content when I’m tired and overstimulated, because it promises a clean emotional reset. I also think I’m drawn to it because it makes pain feel organized, and organized pain sounds easier than messy feelings.

I had been carrying that familiar mix of stress and self-criticism, the kind that makes you feel like you’re behind even when you’re doing your best. I was snappy in my thoughts, not out loud, but in the way I talked to myself when I made small mistakes. 

That’s usually my sign that I need kindness, because when my inner voice gets sharp, it means I’m depleted.

So I wanted to do something that would soften that sharpness, and “inner child healing” felt like the right label, even if I wasn’t totally sure what it was supposed to look like in real life.

Attempting to Make the Night “Aesthetic,” Because of Course I Did

I set the scene like I was filming a wholesome reel. I put on soft lighting, I lit a candle, I picked a playlist that sounded like a calm forest, and I grabbed my journal like I was about to have a breakthrough. 

Then I opened my journal and wrote one prompt I’d seen online, something like, “What did you need as a child that you didn’t get,” and immediately my brain went blank, which is my favorite response when I try to be deep on demand. 

I thought comfort had to be profound to be valid, and the pressure to be profound made me feel worse instead of better.

The Freezer Moment That Was More Honest Than Any Journal Prompt

I got up to make tea, because tea felt like the correct thing to do, and I opened the freezer to grab ice cubes, and that’s when I saw the dino nuggets. 

And I tried to argue with it, which is the funniest part, because I actually stood there thinking, “No, Millie, you’re doing healing, not nuggets,” as if nuggets were the enemy of emotional growth.

Then I remembered the message I needed, even if I didn’t have the words yet, because my body knew before my brain did. My body didn’t want a perfect journal entry. My body wanted comfort that felt safe and familiar and easy.

So I made the nuggets.

How Dino Nuggets Became the Actual Healing Ritual

I put them on a tray and baked them, because yes I could have microwaved them, but I wanted the crispiness, and crispiness is a form of joy I will defend. 

While they cooked, I sat on the floor in front of the oven like a child waiting for cookies, and I laughed at myself, because this was not the elegant healing ritual I had imagined, but it was the first moment all day where I wasn’t judging myself. That matters.

While the nuggets cooked, I realized I was already practicing what I wanted from the night. I was listening to a small desire without shaming it. I was choosing something that made me feel cared for..

Comfort can be silly and still real, and real comfort is often the kind that doesn’t need explaining.

Here’s the Part I Messed Up, So You Don’t Have To

I almost refused comfort because it looked childish. That’s the sneaky trap, because “inner child healing” sounds like you’re allowed to be tender with yourself, but the second the tenderness looks a little silly, the adult part of you wants to shut it down. 

I almost did that, and I’m so glad I didn’t, because the whole point of caring for your inner child is letting yourself have what you needed, including harmless joy.

I also almost turned it into a moral argument, like, “Should I be eating nuggets,” which is not the point. The point was not nutrition perfection. The point was softness and safety for one evening.

So I let myself eat the nuggets without turning it into a trial, and that alone felt like progress.

What I Ate With Them, Because I’m Still an Adult (Kind Of)

I made a little plate like I was making a snack for a kid I actually liked, which was me. I added something crunchy, something cold, and something that felt fun.

Ingredients

• Dino nuggets
• Ketchup or your favorite dip
• Something crunchy (chips, cucumber slices, or crackers)
• Something cold (grapes, apple slices, or a little yogurt)
• Optional: a fizzy drink in a cup with a straw, because why not

I was trying to create a comforting moment, and the weird thing is that once you stop shaming yourself, you can make choices that feel better naturally. You’re not eating from stress, you’re eating from care.

The Message, Woven Through the Whole Night

Comfort can be silly and still real. Healing can look like tears, and healing can also look like laughing on your kitchen floor while you wait for dinosaur nuggets to get crispy. 

Healing doesn’t always come in serious packaging, and sometimes the most healing thing you can do is let yourself have a harmless joy without explaining it.

I used to think comfort had to be earned by being productive first, or by doing the “right” healing steps, or by being profound enough to deserve it. Now I’m learning comfort is allowed to be simple, and it’s allowed to look like something you would have loved when you were eight.

I thought I needed a perfect self-care ritual to feel better, when what I needed was permission to enjoy something small without shame.

What I’m Keeping From This, Without Turning It Into a Whole Lifestyle

I’m not making nuggets my new therapy plan, because that would be chaotic, but I am keeping the idea that comfort is personal. If your comfort looks like a bath, amazing. 

If your comfort looks like a silly meal, a cartoon, a blanket fort, or blasting a throwback playlist while you clean your kitchen at 10 p.m., that counts too.

The goal is not to look healed. The goal is to feel cared for, even in small ways.

Comfort can be silly and still real, and sometimes the silly comfort is the one your body actually believes.

What’s your most “childish” comfort that still works every single time, because I want a full list, and I also want you to know you’re not weird for it. You’re human, and humans have always used small joys to survive big days.