When Miniature Cooking Kits Were Our Only Heartbreak

The other day, I was walking through the park, enjoying my adulting moment — headphones in, mind wandering — when I spotted two teens sitting on a bench. Must've been around 15, a boy and a girl. But something was off.

The boy was crying. Not the “I-failed-a-math-test” kind of cry. This was deep. I thought maybe someone had bullied them or worse, so I walked up and gently asked, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

The girl looked up and casually said,
“His girlfriend cheated on him with his best friend. He’s going through a breakup.”

I stood there, stunned. Not because of the drama — I mean, heartbreaks happen — but because this was happening at fifteen. In my head, I was screaming:
“BRO, when I was 14, I was crying to my mom to buy me a miniature cooking kit. I never got that. STILL haven’t. (If anyone reading this wants to make my childhood dreams come true, please, I beg you… just send me one. Amazon link on request.)”

Anyway, I pulled myself together. Tried to say something wise, comforting — you know, grown-up stuff. So I said,
“It’s okay, boy. Things happen. You’ll move on.”

The kid looked me dead in the eye, face soaked in tears and pain, and said:
“You seriously have no idea how much it hurts. Don’t tell me how to tie the lace when you’ve never been in my shoes.”

I blinked. I internally combusted. And then I said, “Really sorry, bro,” and slowly moonwalked out of there.

But that moment stuck with me.

Kids These Days… and Their Heavy Hearts

I don’t know what shook me more — the breakup, the language, or the fact that kids today are dealing with grown-up emotions at an age when I didn’t even know how to spell “depression.” (Honestly, I still confuse it with ‘compression’ sometimes, but that’s beside the point.)

There’s this wave I’m seeing — 13-year-olds saying they’re in depression. Twelve-year-olds talking about anxiety. Ten-year-olds refusing to eat because their mom shouted at them or because someone said no to a mobile game.

I’m not belittling feelings. Emotions are valid. Mental health is real. But it’s heartbreaking to see children crumble so early, when they haven’t even seen the real storms yet.

When I Was a Kid...

I remember falling down while playing and getting yelled at by my mom for being “careless.”
She beat me with a broomstick.
And that same night, she brought porotta and salna for dinner, and I smiled like a stupid dog who forgot everything.

Because we were wired differently.

We knew love was loud, messy, and complicated. We were scared of our parents — not in a toxic way, but in a “they'll throw my slippers at me if I say one more word” kind of way.
And still, we knew they loved us. Through food, through silence, through Sunday oil baths and mosquito coil battles.

So What’s Going Wrong?

We’re raising a generation that’s hyper-aware but emotionally fragile.
They know the terms — anxiety, trauma, panic attack — but they don’t always know what it means, how it feels, or how to cope.

And I wonder:
If heartbreak at 15 breaks them, how will they survive...

• A college rejection?

• A job that doesn’t pay enough?

• A friendship that fades without reason?

• A parent’s expectation that weighs like concrete?

• A marriage that’s not always sunshine and butterflies?

• A kid who throws tantrums and drains your soul?

This world isn’t gentle. It’s beautiful, yes. But it hurts. And if we don’t teach our kids how to hurt and still live, we’re setting them up to break.

Let’s Talk About It. But Also, Let’s Toughen Up.

Mental health matters. Let’s make that clear.

But mental strength? That matters too. We can’t teach one and ignore the other.
It’s time to bring back the lessons of resilience. The art of brushing off, bouncing back, and laughing through pain.

Let them cry. Let them feel. But let’s also teach them how to wipe their tears and stand tall. Because this world will not stop just because you’re sad.

And to the boy in the park...

I don’t know your name.
But someday, when you’re older, you’ll laugh at this.
Just like how I still laugh about the miniature cooking kit I never got.

(And again, dear reader — if your Amazon cart is feeling generous, hook a sister up with that kit. Childhood trauma needs closure, okay?)

Final Words

To the parents: love loudly, discipline gently, and raise warriors.

To the teens: heartbreak sucks. Life sometimes sucks more. But it gets better. Don’t quit.

To the world: please bring back broomsticks and porottas. They healed us in ways therapy now charges ₹1500 an hour for.

Written with love, nostalgia, and slight secondhand trauma from a random park bench interaction.
– Arunima Pasumpon (Still waiting on that cooking kit.)