When we grow up, our heart dies

The quiet complexity of love as we age.

I was rewatching The Breakfast Club the other night. No reason. It was just playing in the background while I was scrolling through my phone, trying not to feel anything. But then, near the end, there's this line, quiet, almost throwaway, where Allison, the quiet, messy one who barely speaks, says this line that just... lodged itself in my chest.

And I just froze.

It wasn’t just a line;

It felt like someone opened a window into my soul. It made me think about how my heart used to be, how it used to feel before life taught it how to play it safe, how to protect itself from getting hurt.

When I was younger, my heart was like a little kid running around in the rain, laughing at the smallest things, never worrying about the puddles or the cold. I loved everything, everyone, and every moment. That was me. That was my heart. Big, bold, unafraid.

But over time, I started to notice something different. That kid in me who used to love without a second thought started shrinking, like a balloon losing air. Maybe it was school, maybe it was the people I met, maybe it was just the weight of growing older, but somewhere along the way, I started to hold back. It wasn't a conscious decision; it just sort of happened. My heart stopped reaching out so freely, stopped trusting so easily. Instead, it learned to second-guess. It started asking, "Are you sure you should feel this way?" It began to measure the risks of giving too much, of loving too deeply, because it was scared of getting nothing in return. And the longer it held back, the quieter it became. It was like I wasn’t even sure who that loud, unashamed heart of mine had gone.

There’s a sadness that comes with growing up that no one talks about. It’s not the typical “adulting sucks” kind of sadness. It’s the quiet kind, the kind that creeps in when you start realizing that the world doesn’t give you the same kind of love it used to. When you grow older, love becomes more calculated, more fragile. It’s not just about being swept up in the moment anymore. It’s about expectations, boundaries, and fears of getting hurt. You start holding your heart a little tighter, because you’ve learned the hard way that not everyone is going to love you the way you want to be loved. Not everyone’s going to show up, not everyone’s going to stay, and even when they do, it’s never as perfect as you imagined. You stop giving out love as freely, and you start wondering, “Is this enough? Is this too much?” But somewhere in the process, your heart grows smaller. The once vibrant, open thing you used to carry around with you gets tucked away, like an old, forgotten toy.

It feels like the heart I used to have, the one that wanted to fall in love with everything people, places, and ideas, has disappeared. Like it’s slowly died, piece by piece, without me even noticing. I look back and I miss it. I miss the feeling of loving without hesitation, of being all in. I miss how my heart used to dive headfirst into things, without waiting for a sign or a guarantee. And now, here I am, with a cautious heart that flinches before it gives, that holds back just a little too much. It’s like watching an old friend turn into someone you barely recognize. They still exist, but they’re not the same anymore.

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But maybe growing up isn’t about your heart dying. Maybe it’s about realizing that it doesn't have to be that loud, impulsive thing anymore. Maybe it’s about learning that love isn’t always the spontaneous, chaotic mess it used to be. Maybe it's quieter now, but that doesn’t make it any less powerful. It’s like a fire that’s been simmering for a while, waiting for the right moment to burn again. It’s not about loving everything or everyone, but choosing who and what to love, even after everything you’ve been through. Maybe the real magic isn’t in loving like a kid, without a second thought. Maybe it’s in learning how to love with purpose. How to love the mess, the flaws, the broken parts of yourself and others. How to show up when it’s hard and when you’re scared.

Growing up, your heart doesn’t die. It just becomes more intentional, more mature, more careful. And even though it feels like it’s not as big as it used to be, it still has the ability to grow, to give, to love. I’ve just learned how to be more discerning, more thoughtful, more real. Maybe it’s not screaming at the top of its lungs anymore, but it’s still whispering. It’s still here. And it still wants to love, even if it’s different from what it was before.

So, maybe my heart isn’t dead, nor is yours. Maybe it’s just waiting for the right moment to start beating loudly again, with all of the scars and memories of the years we’ve spent trying to protect it. Maybe that’s where the real magic is. In learning to love, not because you have to, but because you choose to. Because, deep down, despite all the pain, the heart still believes in love. It just knows now that the best kind of love is the one that’s earned, not freely given. The kind that sticks around after everything else has faded.

And maybe that’s the hardest part of growing up: realizing that your heart isn’t dead. It’s just different. It’s become something more beautiful, more complex. Something that has room for both joy and pain. It still loves. It always will. It just needs you to remind it that it’s okay to be loud again.