When I was eight, a nap was a punishment, a tiny prison sentence handed down for the crime of being slightly cranky. I would lie there plotting my escape, convinced the world was throwing a party I was missing. Now? A nap is the single most luxurious thing I own. I would trade actual money for one. I have lain awake at night fantasizing about the nap I plan to take tomorrow, like a kid counting down to Christmas.

Same goes for silence, which I once found unbearable and now hoard like a dragon. As a kid I needed noise, motion, somebody to entertain me every waking second. These days the greatest gift you can hand me is a room where nothing is happening and nobody needs anything. Turns out my parents were not punishing me. They were trying to pass along a secret I was too busy to sit still long enough to hear. Childhood is wasted on people who refuse to lie down.