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My very first memory was kneeling on the stool beside the aquarium in the middle of the night, the only source of illumination coming from its LED lights. All 50 gallons of its mass was set heavily on a gray marble table in our hallway, full of sea creatures of colors and shades that delighted my wide eyes: deep set blue, gleaming silver, camo grey, flashing gold. Even at night, the fish were teeming with life—some were drifting in the gentle current, the sheen of their scales vibrant against the azure blue of the aquarium background, while others were darting quickly in and out of sight, seeking refuge from my stare behind the deep auburn logs and plastic coral decor that littered the bottom of the tank. Gripping the cold edge of the marble table tighter, I kneeled alone on that stool until my knees ached, and it was only when my legs began tingling from a lack of circulation that I left the newly set-up tank to go back to sleep.

My house was home to another terrarium, filled with only about an inch or two of murky, stinky  water that I watched my dad and brother change out every week. My role was to supervise the inhabitants of the tank: three little fire-bellied toads. I’ve long forgotten their names, but they were something along the lines of “Tiny,” Speedy,” and “Biggie,” chosen based on my careful observation of their varying sizes and impressive capabilities. There was a much smaller plastic container beside the terrarium filled with the frog’s food: live crickets hopped and skittered throughout, their stick legs scraping softly against the bottom of the box. Once, I took a peek at the critters living in that tank, and I felt my knees go weak with horror and disgust. The whole clan—at least 30 bodies and 180 twitching legs—was huddled around a smooth, yellow table, shuffling around as they chirped and hissed at one another. Backing away in terror, I ran for my dad to warn him of the impending danger; the vermin were planning their escape from the tank!

I was frankly informed that the “yellow table” was a potato slice, which the crickets were feeding upon peacefully when I had so rudely invited myself to their corner.

“I’m going to China on Tuesday,” I announced at one family dinner. “Ashley’s taking me.”

Bewildered, my parents asked why I thought that I was going to another country with my best friend, and I shrugged. “She asked me to go with her for two days, but then I have to come back earlier, like on Thursday. She’s staying until next Tuesday, though.”

“You’re in kindergarten, Michelle,” my mom chided, and I wondered why the edges of her lips were twitching, as if she was holding back a smile.

“I know. Can I go pack?” I asked, and she and my dad burst out laughing.

These are the earliest memories of my childhood that remain unfazed by the passage of time. As children, our perception of reality is distorted by curiosity and wild imaginations. But even if my memories don’t depict the reality of life, they always invoke a smile–because who else can see the world as I do? No one else was there to see the sand lance burrow into their favorite spot in the sand beneath the hot pink coral, and no one else witnessed the devious crickets contriving their liberation from the plastic cage.

So take your lived experiences as the paint that colors your world, and allow those colors to shine through in your thoughts, words, and actions: we are privileged to perceive truth through our own and other individual’s eyes, adding depth and perspective to our own world.