Finding trumpet worm nests in the dirt wasn’t just a childhood pastime. It wasn’t some silly game we invented to kill time. It was survival disguised as wonder, hope hidden beneath our fingernails, and a kind of adventure only kids without much could ever truly understand. While other children disappeared behind glowing screens, tapping on devices they didn’t appreciate, we disappeared into the earth itself. We chased small miracles with bare hands, scraped knees, and hearts that believed even the tiniest creature could turn an ordinary day into something unforgettable.
We didn’t fully understand it back then, not the way adults try to analyze everything, but each tiny nest we uncovered was rewiring us—reshaping how we saw joy, struggle, and what actually mattered in a world that didn’t always make room for kids like us.
We grew up where luxury lived behind other people’s doors, where the smell of new plastic toys came from store shelves instead of birthday presents, and where video games were something you played only if a neighbor let you in for a few minutes. So we turned to what we had: the dirt beneath our feet, the open fields, the muddy patches after rainfall, the quiet corners under old trees. Trumpet worm nests became our treasure chests—proof that magic still existed even when money didn’t, that wonder wasn’t something you bought but something you stumbled upon if you dared to look closely enough.
We weren’t just digging for worms; we were digging for pieces of ourselves.
We learned to share discoveries, to yell with excitement when a friend found a nest before us, to cheer instead of envy, to compete without cruelty. We learned how to turn boredom into curiosity and curiosity into joy. Every handful of dirt was a chance to feel victorious, to feel capable, to feel rich in a way no store-bought toy could ever give us.
And those days carved something unshakable into us.
Hardship didn’t simply surround our childhood—it shaped our character, pressed resilience into our bones, and taught us the kind of gratitude that stays for life. While others grew up expecting comfort, we grew up creating it. While others needed amusement handed to them, we found it in the smallest corners of the world.
Even now, all these years later, when life feels heavy and adult responsibilities stack up like unpayable debts, we remember muddy hands, sunburned shoulders, and afternoons when laughter echoed louder than any worry. We remember fragile nests we cradled like gold, feeling as if we’d uncovered secret miracles meant only for us.
That’s our quiet superpower:
the ability to find beauty in small things, joy in unexpected places, and strength in moments no one else bothers to notice. It’s the gift that comes from growing up with little—because it taught us how to see everything.