In which Trupz says Before the World Hardened Me

On softness, wonder, and the people who taught me how to remain human

The superheroes that shaped me did not teach me how to defeat people.
They taught me how to remain human.

When I was younger, I thought heroes were people who saved the world dramatically. I thought being a hero meant becoming powerful and invincible. Somewhere along the way, without realizing it, I found myself shaped by a very different kind of heroism.

Not the kind that destroys.
But the kind that protects being human.

Long before MTV came to India, I knew Michael Jackson only through sound. He existed for me as a voice first. Through cassette players, radio stations, borrowed recordings, and many a school assembly.

And then MTV arrived.

Suddenly, the voice had movement. The videos were spectacular, and the moonwalk amazed me, of course. But even after finally seeing him, it was songs like Heal the World and I’ll Be There that quietly tugged at my heart.

I belong to a generation that believed every word he sang.

So when Michael said, “Heal the world, make it a better place,” I genuinely believed humanity would come together and do exactly that. Somewhere deep down, I believed I was one of the children the world would protect if enough people cared.

Maybe that sounds naïve now. But there was something beautiful about growing up with that hope.

When I watched Michael, my eyes welled up when I heard:

“We are the world
We are the children…”

Because the song reconnects me to a version of myself I am scared of losing. The version that still believes kindness can save people.

Somewhere along the way, Michael made softness feel safe. He made kindness feel powerful in a world that constantly teaches us that tough means strong.

As a child, I never realized how difficult it was to conserve kindness in the real world. Kindness felt instinctive. We apologized quickly. We cried openly. We trusted each other easily. Adulthood slowly taught us caution instead. Sensitivity became something to hide, vulnerability became childish, and cynicism began masquerading as intelligence.

Somewhere between growing older and becoming practical, many of us lost the version of ourselves that believed the world would actually heal. Maybe adulthood is just the slow negotiation between staying soft and learning to survive.

And every time I listen to those songs, I briefly reconnect with that child again. The one who still believed vulnerability was part of being human.

Perhaps that is why David Attenborough felt so important to my generation. Last week, as the world celebrated his 100th birthday, I found myself unexpectedly emotional. Because I realized he never really taught us science.

He taught us wonder.

Before climate anxiety became a headline and a statistic, there was simply his voice carrying us through forests, oceans, deserts, and melting glaciers, reminding us that the Earth was alive in ways we were too distracted to notice ourselves.

And during COVID, when the world had suddenly shrunk to the size of our homes, I found myself constantly returning to documentaries like Our Planet. While the world outside felt frighteningly still, I kept returning to images of whales surfacing through dark oceans and forests, breathing quietly somewhere far away from human panic and chaos.

What I found here was not loud optimism. But the quiet reassurance that beauty still existed in the world. He made the Earth feel less like a planet and more like home, like something I belonged to. And maybe because I deeply connect with photography, the experience of watching the beauty of nature unfold on the screen in such vividness became even more profound. The visuals were not just beautiful; they felt almost spiritual.

While reading tributes to him turning 100, I felt this strange wave of gratitude realizing millions of people across the world probably felt the same thing at once, that this man had quietly altered humanity’s emotional relationship with the planet itself.

That is an extraordinary thing. To spend your life making people care. Not through fear. Not through outrage. But through awe.

Not everyone who raises you lives inside your home. Some arrive through songs. Some through documentaries. And years later, you suddenly realize they were quietly protecting parts of you the world was trying to harden.

That is why seeing David Attenborough turn 100 felt emotional. That is why hearing Michael Jackson still hurts in places I cannot fully explain. They reminded me that gentleness is not weakness. That awe is not childish. That caring deeply is not foolish. Sometimes it feels like the real tragedy of adulthood is not losing innocence, but losing your ability to care.

And maybe that is why I still return to them, because some part of me is still trying to protect the softness the world keeps asking me to outgrow.