𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “The Privilege of Not Knowing” by Gee Anne Robles

 

Published by: Jadelynn Arnigo

Date Published: February 2, 2026

Time Published: 8:49 AM

Category: Prose

Theme: Loss of Innocence and the Burden of Harsh Reality

There was a time when the world felt gentle—when mornings smelled like hope and the days stretched endlessly without reason to rush. Back then, my biggest worry was finishing homework before sunset, not whether the future would be kind to me. I thought adulthood meant freedom; staying out late, choosing my own path, having control. But I was wrong. What I thought was freedom was really a burden disguised as choice—a constant cycle of decisions that cost too much, emotionally and otherwise. I miss the privilege of not knowing how the world truly works, of believing that life was fair, that hard work was enough, that the good always triumphed.

Ignorance, I now realize, was a kind of peace. It wasn’t stupidity—it was innocence. A soft place to rest, untouched by reality’s harsh edges. I didn’t understand what it meant to work endlessly and still not get ahead. I didn’t know that people could smile while plotting your downfall. I thought justice was blind, that kindness was its own reward, that dreams only required effort. But now I see the world for what it is—a place where systems favor the loud, where silence is mistaken for weakness, and where survival too often replaces living.

Growing up feels like slowly losing the color in everything. You start to see behind the curtain—the way money bends morality, how exhaustion becomes routine, and how so many people wear masks just to get through the day. The magic you once saw in people fades when you realize how easily they can choose convenience over compassion. You learn that apologies don’t always mean change, and that promises, no matter how sincere, can still break without reason.

Sometimes, I envy the child I once was—the one who could still look at the sky and believe it meant something, who thought home would always feel safe, who didn’t question whether people meant their words. That version of me lived lightly, unafraid of what tomorrow might bring, untouched by the ache of understanding. I miss that kind of blindness, the bliss of not having to see the cracks beneath the surface of everything.

Now, I wake up and feel the weight of knowing—the headlines, the bills, the quiet fears about the future. The world no longer feels big and full of wonder; it feels heavy and uncertain. I still laugh, still hope, but it’s a different kind of hope now—one that exists not because I believe everything will be okay, but because I need to believe it just to keep going.

I miss not knowing how cruel the world can be. I miss believing that good things always come to good people. I miss thinking love could fix what’s broken. But most of all, I miss that younger version of me—the one who didn’t carry the weight of understanding, the one who found peace in simply not knowing.

And sometimes, as the world presses harder, I wish I could return to that old innocence—like stepping back into a warm room after years of standing in the cold, even just long enough to remember what warmth felt like.