I’ve always been a serious person. Too literal, too gullible, not quite cool enough to catch social cues or innuendos. Earnest. Words like casual, playful, and flirtatious would apply to me only if few humans were left on earth for comparison. I am a fan of rules. Structure.

Babies born into trauma learn early that the world isn’t safe. Our birthrights are deep sadness and an urgent need for control. Some of us may become flippant, flashy performers. Some of us may become addicted to achieving, others to drugs. What we usually aren’t is carefree. 

My dad, who isn’t much for talking about his feelings, is a rules and structure person, too. Games were the safety net of our play. They had clear laws, limited unknowns. He taught me poker and dominoes. We played croquet and shot hoops in the yard, and kept a collection of tattered board games. As I grew up, I learned video games, arcade games, drinking games.

Then I met James. His family tree was sturdy, with few secrets and strong branches. The practical jokes go back for generations. When I attended a family wedding, all his uncles were unashamedly shaking it on the dance floor. James, a joker himself, tried to drag me along to join them.

In 2014, I refused to make a silly face at him because I didn’t want to look, well, silly. I was nearly in tears because he wanted me to do it, and I felt too vulnerable—with this person who had already seen me pee behind a sand dune. I’d mastered so many games: pinball machines, MarioKart, Skee ball—games with rules, structure. What I couldn’t master was the playful glee of self-acceptance.

Sometime around the 2016 election, or the pandemic, I realized that nothing was fun anymore. The fabric holding our society together was anger and fear. We collectively spent a lot of time shouting at strangers online. I was trying to keep up with the rules of being a “good person.” Is it enough to wear a mask, or should I also shame those who don’t? Do I put up a black square on Instagram in solidarity, or is that performative? 

My two- year-old was oblivious to my frantic scramble for control, too busy painting her belly blue or pretending she was a member of the Paw Patrol. My husband was still coming up with goofy dance moves, to my annoyance. Couldn’t he see? If we weren’t freaking out, how could anything possibly continue to function without the fuel of our anxiety?!

Over the next three years I had a second kid, left the paid workforce, and turned 40, trading business travel for wiping butts. My kids didn’t appreciate my meeting facilitation skills or ability to create tight one-pagers. They just wanted me to play with them. When their dad was silly and spontaneous, they glowed with delight. So, for them, I experimented with making up songs and donning hand puppets.

At first, it was awful. What if someone sees me? Do I look stupid? My children forced me to confront my lifelong fears of rejection and losing control. Slowly, I realized the joy that it gave them when I made funny faces. Even more slowly, I realized it gave me joy too, to release control and find freedom. I could relax. I was now safe within the strong branches of our own family tree. The generational curse of trauma still haunts me, but I won’t let it haunt my children, too. They will know a life of fairy potions and the chicken nugget song and uncomplicated laughter.

I now understand that unstructured play somehow measures our safety, confidence, and capacity for love. James was right all along: when the world appears to be burning down, your goofy dance moves will save you. My kids are now deep in the game years: Candyland, Memory Match, Crazy 8’s. Rules matter. Structure matters. But in this family, what really matters is that you’re safe enough to make silly faces and joyous enough to laugh at them.