The Noseless Pooh That Taught Me About Myself
An interesting memory jumped into my mind this morning, and it reminded me of my favorite childhood toy. Reflecting on this memory taught me a lesson I much needed to learn. My favorite childhood toy, if I can even call it “childhood,” since I was about nine years old, was a Winnie the Pooh plush toy.
It’s funny to think about it now. We weren’t rich, in terms of money, but we were stable. We never missed anything important. Still, my brothers and I didn’t have many toys that were actual “toys” at home. I had a few Barbies, but I used them more for display than play. I had toy instruments, which I did use, but they were for music, not for creating imaginary games.
And yet, I don’t say this with sadness. On the contrary, it was a gift. That limitation gave me the best imagination. I created worlds in my mind, worlds where everything I wanted or needed already existed. I would go outside, sing and dance, and let my imagination carry me wherever I wanted.
One time, when I was about nine, we went to visit my cousins. They had all kinds of toys, and we were close in age, and when I arrived, I saw that my aunt had neatly packed them up for donations. That’s when I spotted it: a large Winnie the Pooh plush toy.
I couldn’t resist.
Nothing mattered to me in that moment, which was unusual for me. I didn’t care about asking for it, didn’t care if I looked childish, or if anyone would laugh at me for wanting to cuddle with Pooh. I pulled him out of the bag and asked if I could keep him. To my surprise, nobody laughed. On the contrary, they told me to look through and see if there was anything else I wanted. But I only wanted Pooh.
He was big, about a third of my size at the time, and he was missing his nose. But I didn’t care. I didn’t even “play” with him in the traditional sense. He just became my quiet friend. I read while hugging him. I did my homework while he sat on my lap. I hugged him at night. I literally loved him.
Years later, when I was around twenty-four, another aunt of mine had her first baby. When my toddler cousin came to stay with us, he fell in love with my Pooh. I realized then it was time to let him go, and I gave Pooh to him. About a month later, I learned in passing that Pooh had been thrown away. Their bed had been infested with bedbugs, and all the dolls had to go. I’m not going to lie, I was a little heartbroken. You know what, it was more than “a little heartbroken.” Even then, I remember wishing they had told me, because I would have tried to save him somehow.
Looking back, that noseless Pooh gave me more than comfort. He reflects the kind of child I was, and perhaps still am deep down: a child seeking a presence that was non-judgmental, safe, and unconditionally loving. And if it were up to me, he would still be here with me today.
Why Looking Back Matters
Thinking about Pooh now, I realize that even the smallest memories, like childhood toys, can reveal a lot about who we were and who we are. My connection to that little plush bear wasn’t just nostalgia, it was a real need for comfort and stability. Looking back with the awareness of my recent neurodivergent diagnosis, I can see that I was a kid who often felt overwhelmed by a world I didn’t fully understand. Pooh became a steady, comforting presence I could hold onto when everything else felt uncertain.
It turns out this isn’t just my personal experience. There’s something so powerful about the sense of touch and its role in calming the nervous system. Research shows that comfort objects play an important role in emotional regulation for both children and adults. For neurodivergent adults especially, things like plushies or weighted blankets aren’t simply reminders of childhood; they’re practical tools that ease anxiety and bring a sense of safety in a chaotic world.
And it’s not only about comfort. Paying attention to these sensations, like the softness of fabric, the weight of a blanket, can foster mindfulness by gently drawing our focus back to the present. It’s a simple but powerful form of self-care.
That’s what Pooh did for me. He showed me that even as a child, I instinctively sought grounding, warmth, safety, and love. And as an adult, when I’m tempted to downplay my needs or struggle to voice them, I can remember that little girl who unapologetically pulled Pooh from the donation pile and said, “This is what I want.”
I feel a bit lighter now, so if you're amenable, I want to invite you to the same. Think about your own childhood toy, book, or blanket, or even a favorite place. What did it give you at the time? Does it reveal something about the child you were? And how might that child still be whispering something important to you now?
Sometimes the deepest lessons hide in the simplest memories.
💛
