Over winter break, I received an elephant stuffed animal whose name is Sheeran. (As a side note, I initially named the animal Shireen in honor of our late GOT princess but the name got morphed to Sheeran via the repetitive usage of a housemate who did not watch GOT.) It's also important to mention that Sheeran is filled with micro-beads, which heat up in the microwave and smell like lavender.

I feel safe saying most people out there reading this have some childhood artifact to which they attach special memories. Personally, I have a blanket (aptly named Baby Blanket by my august adolescent brain) and a Dalmatian, named, wait for it, Dalmatian. I wanted to talk about Sheeran because of what he has helped me to understand, to unlock, and to reclaim. It is one thing to receive a stuffed animal as a child and an entirely other matter to receive one as a twenty-one-year-old. Opening an utterly unnecessary gift (most of what I buy/receive these days is of the practical sort, like a delightful basting brush – highly recommend) is nothing short of refreshing. Let me give you a brief glimpse into what I mean:

When the day ends, the dark seeps into the sky like spilled ink, and everyone sheds the afternoon’s demanding dress code of efficiency and productivity, I slink up the stairs to my room urged by the anticipation of sleep. But, sometimes, sleep refuses to accompany me and I lie awake wondering what it would feel like to be a kid again–held, protected and sung to sleep. But I’m not a child; I’m a college student attempting to navigate the world... and yet the desire remains. Sheeran, the only stuffed animal I’ve ever received as an adult (still unsure exactly where the legitimate cut-off is for the application of this elusive word) serves as a welcomed compromise of this tension. I curl up and wrap my arms around the warmed (and lavender-scented!) animal. It’s not a perfect solution, but it stems off a little bit of loneliness. My mind whispers, "it’s okay to need." It’s okay to ache for the innocent days when someone else tucked you in at night.

In a generation, in a region where we dare not acknowledge how crucial it is to be held and taken care of because we should be independent and need people only when we can actively choose to need them, validating a clamorous heart’s longing for a parent or parental figure seems superfluous.

But it’s not.

As children, we need our parents or some parental-type figure. That need does not simply up and vanish with age because we will it to. It is indeed possible, and, actually, necessary to pursue our individual and emotional autonomy while simultaneously embracing our instinctual need to be taken care of, to be loved. It is neither weak nor trite; it is beautifully human.

Thanks Sheeran (and my counselor) for helping me process this seemingly-obvious truth.