When I think back to how I was raised, one recurring image makes me shake my head with equal parts nostalgia and disbelief. My mum would take out a worn wooden cutting board, cut raw chicken on it, then (without washing or bleaching it) chop hard-boiled eggs on that same board, and then — without a second thought — use it to spread butter on slices of bread. Yes, the same board, the same knife, the same surface. No sanitiser. No rubber gloves. No sparkling stainless steel or antibacterial sprays.
Yet, somehow, none of us ever recall getting food poisoning.
Our lunches as kids tell the same story. Sandwiches were wrapped in wax paper, tucked into plain brown paper bags — no insulated lunchboxes, no ice packs. Yet I never heard of anyone needing hospitalisation for E. coli. Maybe luck, maybe immunity, maybe that invisible “childhood resilience.”
It wasn’t just in the kitchen. Everything about life in those days seemed looser, rougher, and yet strangely enduring.
School Life: The Unfiltered Version
We didn’t have safety-certified athletic shoes. Our PE gear usually meant a pair of inexpensive rubber-soled shoes — no cross-trainers, no grip tech, no air-cushioned soles. We risked scrapes, sprains, and who knows what else — but broken bones were rare enough to be the material of local legend.
And discipline? The cane (or whatever they used) was real. You misbehaved, you got it — not with warnings or detention forms, but an actual spanking or a dose of strictness. That kind of discipline was accepted then; now it would be considered scandalous by many.
We had 50 students crammed into a single classroom. We learned to read, write, do arithmetic, spell properly, and compose grammar-correct letters — even though resources were scarce. Teachers expected results, and (amazingly) often got them.
Every day we recited the national anthem, we said prayers (regardless of religion), and very few protested. It felt normal.
Detention after school was social poison. Getting caught staying late meant whispers, side glances, and reputational cost more than anything a principal might dish out.
Play, Injury, and Adventure
We didn’t have fenced playgrounds or padded play mats. Vacant lots, piles of rubble, and unfinished building sites were fair game as “playgrounds.” Kids would scramble up gravel mounds for a makeshift “King of the Hill” game. You’d fall, bruise your knees, and your mum would whip out some iodine (or maybe nothing), slap on a bandage, and send you along your way — sometimes with a scolding, sometimes with a smack.
There were no visits to emergency rooms for every cut or bruise. A bee sting? Maybe some local remedy or a dab of ointment, but no antibiotics, no sterile kits. We survived anyway.
As a child, I never thought about whether my family was “dysfunctional.” Therapy, anger management, emotional coaching — these weren’t part of life. If your family argued, you swallowed things. If you were upset, you stuffed it. And you carried on.
How Did We Survive?
The irony now is that today’s world is relentlessly safety-conscious. We sanitize, we isolate, we overprotect. But back then, risk was baked into daily life — and somehow, most of us carried on unscathed.
Did we have stronger natural resistance? Was it that the pathogens were less virulent? Or did we simply avoid reporting, hospitalising, or diagnosing everything? Maybe our parents had tolerance for germs that modern standards reject entirely.
We grew up believing in standards and respect. We accepted discipline, we accepted rules, we obeyed elders — and we matured into adulthood not coddled, but perhaps tougher, more resourceful.
I look around today and wonder: have we lost something in the process of “making life safer”? Did we trade grit, spontaneity, and a certain rawness for sanitized security?
To all of those who remember this era: you know what I mean. And to those who didn’t live it — maybe you missed something strange, messy, and beautiful.
Love to all of us who shared it — and compassion for those who didn’t get to.