I must have been around five years old when I experienced what I now call my first heartbreak.
It was a day filled with happiness and color. My parents had taken me to a fair, and the moment I laid eyes on a bright red balloon, I knew I had to have it. There was something magical about it—the way it bobbed in the air, tied to my tiny wrist like a promise that happiness could be held onto.
For hours, I carried it around, grinning as it floated behind me like a loyal friend. I imagined it was a tiny planet orbiting around me, my own personal piece of the sky.
Then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone.
A strong gust of wind yanked the string from my hand, and I could do nothing but watch in horror as my beautiful balloon soared higher and higher. My fingers grasped at the empty air, but it was too late.
Tears welled up in my eyes. To a child, losing something so small can feel like losing the whole world.
That’s when my mother knelt beside me.
“You know,” she said, “maybe your balloon wanted to go on an adventure.”
I sniffled, confused. “What adventure?”
“Well,” she said, pointing at the sky, “maybe it’s flying to the moon. Or maybe there’s a little girl on the other side of the world who was wishing for a red balloon, and yours is on its way to her.”
I blinked, my sadness momentarily replaced by curiosity. I pictured my balloon floating over mountains, crossing vast oceans, whispering secrets to the wind.
And just like that, the pain faded.
I smiled. “I hope she likes it.”
That was the first time I realized how powerful words can be. My mother didn’t buy me a new balloon. She didn’t try to fix what had happened. Instead, she changed the way I saw it. And sometimes, that’s all kindness needs to do.