I used to be able to do a perfect cartwheel. Today, I watched my niece and her best friend tumbling across the garden. Their limbs flying, giggles spilling into the air, and it hit me, that kind of freedom in your body… it slips away so slowly you hardly notice.
At ten, I could cartwheel the entire length of the playground. Handstands against walls. Tree climbing. Skipping for hours.
I was a tomboy—scraped knees, messy hair, never still.
Now I can’t even remember the last time I tried a cartwheel. And honestly, if I attempted one today, I’d probably end up horizontal for all the wrong reasons.
It’s not just about physical skill.
It’s about ease. Confidence. A certain trust in your body that quietly fades with time—like watercolours left in the sun.
The Quiet Vanishing of Ability
These skills didn’t vanish all at once.
They faded, slowly, without fanfare.
No final performance. No goodbyes. Just… gone.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve let age get in my way.
Maybe I’m still capable of more than I think.
Maybe a handstand would show me the skill isn't lost, just buried.
The mind is willing. The body? Well, it has its own opinions.
Memoir Prompt
What’s a skill you once had that you’ve lost over time?
Was it something physical—like skating, dancing, climbing, running?
Or maybe something quieter—whistling with your fingers, writing poetry, playing an instrument by ear?
Explore when you first learned it. How it made you feel.
When did it start to fade—and did you notice?
Was it lost to time? To age? To self-doubt?
Or did something else quietly take its place?
Journal Reflection Ideas:
-
Revisit the first time you felt proud of that skill.
-
Describe the last time you remember using it.
-
Write about what it represented—freedom, play, confidence, escape.
-
Explore whether you’d try it again… and what might happen if you did.
Sometimes we outgrow skills like we outgrow shoes.
But sometimes, we just need a little space—and a patch of grass—to try again.
