What I learned from a 9 year old

In March 2022, I spent a week in Costa Rica with a dear friend and his nine-year-old son, whom I’ll call Licht.

At the end of the trip, somewhere between Costa Rica and San Francisco, I started writing Licht a letter.

The idea was that I would give it to him on his eighteenth birthday, nine years later. I wanted to capture who he was at nine before time inevitably changed him — funny, mischievous, thoughtful, wildly energetic, and refreshingly honest.

I thought I was writing down some things I wanted him to remember.

Instead, I found myself writing down everything he had reminded me.

“I don’t know.”

A few days earlier, Licht had been lying in a hammock when I asked him:

“Will you still hang out with me when you’re eighteen?”

He thought about it.

“I don’t know. Maybe yes and maybe no.”

I paused.

It was such an obvious answer.

And yet, I hadn’t expected it.

I told him how courageous I thought he was for telling me the truth. When I was his age, I explained, I probably would have said yes simply because I knew that was the answer the other person wanted to hear.

He looked at me, seemingly confused by the problem.

“What happens when you say no? It’s just a no. And if they don’t like your answer, they don’t like your answer.”

Well.

There it was.

Nine years old.

For much of my life, I had learned to read the room. To sense what would make someone happy. To adjust myself accordingly.

And here was this child in a hammock, entirely unburdened by my elaborate relationship with approval.

Maybe yes and maybe no.

I loved the simplicity of it.

He wasn’t being rebellious. He wasn’t trying to prove how authentic he was.

He simply didn’t know.

So he said, “I don’t know.”

“What are you afraid of?”

On our last day together, Licht and I were in a swimming pool in Tamarindo.

I watched him doing backflips and front flips in the water with the effortless confidence of a child.

I decided I wanted to try.

“Licht, can you teach me how to do a backflip?”

He was immediately enthusiastic.

He demonstrated. He put on his goggles so he could watch me underwater. He positioned himself like a tiny Olympic judge.

I got ready.

And then I stopped.

“I’m scared.”

He looked genuinely perplexed.

“What are you afraid of?”

Good question.

I was thirty-seven years old. I loved water. I was standing in a warm swimming pool. The consequences of an unsuccessful underwater backflip were, objectively, quite limited.

Still, I was afraid.

Of doing it badly.

Of looking ridiculous.

Of failing at something in front of a nine-year-old.

So I pushed off the wall and flipped.

It was not graceful.

Licht gave me a 7.8 out of 10.

I considered this extremely generous.

And then we spent the rest of the afternoon playing in the water.

I had spent years thinking about courage in much bigger places — leaving careers, standing in front of powerful people, facing loneliness, making difficult choices.

And there I was, encountering fear in a warm swimming pool, with a nine-year-old asking me the simplest question:

What are you afraid of?

“Do you like my daddy?”

Licht asked questions constantly.

“Can I share this chocolate with you?”

“Why do you look twenty years old?”

“Do you like my daddy?”

“You’re coming to Amsterdam? Yay! When is June? That’s so far away.”

“I’m going to miss you.”

There was so little strategy in his affection.

If he was curious, he asked.

If he liked you, you knew.

If he wanted you there, he told you.

One evening, the three of us were walking home after dinner in Nosara.

It was dark and quiet, the sound of crickets filling the warm night. Licht skipped ahead of us, swinging his arms and singing a song he had apparently composed on the spot.

The lyrics went something like:

Today was a wonderful day with Aerin and Daddy.

Over and over again.

No embarrassment. No wondering whether the song was good.

It was a wonderful day, so he sang about it.

On our last day, we visited a large labyrinth.

When we reached the center, Licht hugged his dad. I stood a few steps away, wanting to give them their moment.

Then I heard him call my name.

He reached one hand toward me, inviting me in.

So I joined them.

He wrapped one arm around his dad and the other around my waist, and the three of us stood there together under the moon.

I remember being moved by how naturally he made room for me.

He didn’t seem to wonder whether I belonged in the hug.

He wanted me there.

So he reached out his hand.

I began that letter thinking about what I hoped Licht wouldn’t lose as he grew older.

His honesty.

His courage.

The ease with which he expressed affection.

But somewhere in the writing, I realized I wasn’t really writing down what I wanted him to remember.

I was writing down what I wanted to remember.

I had gone to Costa Rica because I wanted to spend time with my friend.

I came home with a letter for his son.

Somehow, the letter became a gift to myself.