By Dustina Graeff 
We took their crayons away once—
those simple, magical crayons
that break in half
and still somehow make the world brighter.
We replaced them with iPads.
Cold. Bright. Buzzing.
Screens that never laugh,
never say, “Come play with me,”
never ask to share.
We forgot that children grow
through each other—
through eye contact,
through giggles,
through the tiny arguments
that teach them how to be human.
We said, “Just a minute,”
and that minute stretched into years.
Books stayed closed.
Playdough dried out.
Childhood softened at the edges
while we hurried through our days.
Now they come to school
unable to focus,
unsure how to make friends,
confused by the word “no.”
They can’t tie their shoes,
but they can dance perfectly
to a trend that won’t matter tomorrow.
But still—
I see sparks.
Little glimmers of the children
they’re hungry to be.
The way their eyes widen
when a story gets good.
The way one laugh
ripples across a room
like sunlight finding its way in.
The way a single crayon,
passed from one small hand to another,
can rebuild every skill
a screen could never teach.
Playdough isn’t foreign forever.
Coloring comes back.
Imagination remembers the way home.
Because children are resilient.
Because connection is stronger
than any algorithm.
Because childhood waits—
patiently—
for us to return to it.
And I believe we can.
One story.
One shared moment.
One bright crayon at a time.
It can get better from here.
And with them—
it will.
Originally published on the author’s blog
by Sara Brunsvold 
by Tynea Lewis 
by Kelley Friedland 
