Shopping in the Children’s Section (On purpose)

What a stretchy camisole, a grandma’s honesty, and a rainy day at the library taught me about how we actually learn.

There are certain moments from high school that live rent-free in your brain forever.

Not the big ones.

Not the milestones.

The weirdly specific ones.

Like the time my grandma held up one of my camisoles—fresh out of the dryer, tiny, tight, aggressively stretchy—and asked:

“Where does Lindsay shop? The children’s section?”

And honestly?

Fair question.

We were living in the era of whale tails and halter tops (which, for the record, we were absolutely not allowed to wear to school dances—because shoulders are apparently far too scandalous for high schoolers to handle).

We had just gone through a tough family situation that landed my grandparents at our house for a stretch. And my grandma, being exactly who she was, stepped in to help wherever she could. Laundry included.

My brother? Horrified.

Because no one—and I mean no one—enters a teenage boy’s room without clearance.

Me? Thrilled.

Because someone else was doing my laundry.

Balance.

But that moment in the laundry room stuck. Not because I was offended. Not because it was deep. But because it was funny. It was human. It was a moment of someone trying to understand something outside of their own frame of reference.

She wasn’t judging.

She was just…curious.

Fast forward to the present.

Spring break. Rainy day. Staycation energy.

So naturally, we went to the library.

Historically, I’ve hovered—helping my kids pick books, guiding them toward things I think they'd enjoy. But they’re at an age now where they can explore. Decide. Wander.

So I let go a little.

They scattered.

And for the first time in a long time…I started browsing for myself.

At first, it was casual.

Then it got intentional.

Book after book, I kept pulling titles that stopped me mid-step.

Topics like mindset.

Emotions.

Brain patterns.

Human behavior.

Connection.

The kind of stuff I love.

The kind of stuff I build my work around.

The kind of stuff that—apparently—lives in the children’s section.

And here’s the kicker:

They had pictures.

Clear visuals.

Simple explanations.

Concepts broken down in a way that makes you go, Oh. That’s it. That’s the thing.

So we each checked out three books because that felt like the proper number.

We got home.

We read together for a bit.

Then we split apart and focused on our own areas of interest.

And I found myself sitting there, fully locked in, taking notes like I was in a college lecture hall.

Except this time?

I understood everything.

And that’s when it hit me.

I am still shopping in the children’s section.

But not because I don’t know enough.

Because I finally know how I learn.

Here’s the truth we don’t talk about enough:

Somewhere along the way, we decided that complex equals credible.

That if something is simple, it must be watered down.

That if it has pictures, it’s probably not for grown-ups.

That if it’s easy to understand…it might not be “deep enough.”

But what if the opposite is true?

What if simplicity is actually mastery?

What if the goal isn’t to sound smart…but to make things make sense?

Kids’ books don’t overcomplicate things to prove a point.

They clarify things to make a point.

They take big, overwhelming, emotional, neurological, and behavioral concepts—and say:

“Here. Let’s make this usable.”

And as someone who lives and breathes emotional intelligence, behavior patterns, and human connection…

That’s the work.

Because the goal was never to become the person who knows the most.

It was to become the person who can:

Understand what’s happening,

Put language to it,

Apply it in real life,

And help someone else do the same.

My grandma held up that camisole and laughed because it didn’t make sense to her.

Today, I held up a stack of children’s books and thought:

“Oh. This makes perfect sense.”

So maybe growth doesn’t always look like leveling up.

Maybe sometimes…

It looks like circling back.

With better awareness.

With more intention.

With a deeper appreciation for what actually works.

So if you find yourself drawn to something that feels “too simple”…

Read it anyway.

Learn from it anyway.

Take notes like it matters.

Because it does.

And if anyone asks?

You can just smile and say:

“I found it in the children’s section.”

Move Like It Matters.