I Didn’t Choose the Squish Life, the Squish Life Chose Me

MJ Wynn
Jun 24
3 min read

So today I had one of those moments that kind of quietly shatters your brain in the best possible way. You know the type—you're halfway through "cleaning," but what you're really doing is pacing in slow circles, moving the same pile of stuff back and forth while spiraling into some soft-core existentialism. Classic me.

Anyway. I’m mid-reorganization-of-nothing when I spot her: Wilka the Squishmallow. Just peeking out from under yesterday's hoodie like “hey... remember joy?” And suddenly, boom—I'm ten years old again, on my carpet, alphabetizing my Beanie Babies by zodiac sign (because of course I had their birthdays memorized, I was a Capricorn with a spreadsheet and a gel pen).

😢

💗 from collector to comfort creature

Beanie Babies, man. We treated those little beanbags like investment properties. Tag protectors, display shelves, the whole Wall Street fantasy. It was less about play and more about future-proofing your childhood. I genuinely believed one of mine would pay for college. Spoiler: it did not.

But my Squishmallows? They’re not currency. They’re company. I don’t keep them pristine—I nap on them, cry into them, lean them against my knee when I'm trying to stretch out my weird old injury from 2012 that never really healed. They’re not for showing off. They’re for showing up.

Cameron the Cat doesn’t care if I’m successful. He just wants me to get some sleep. That’s real love.

🧸 what softness taught me during a 3am spiral

Let’s be real, these squish babies have held me through some Nights™. You know the kind—when your brain is playing all the cringiest moments of your life like a personalized Netflix reel no one asked for. When you’re googling “how to be a functioning adult” at 2:14am with one tit hanging out your tank and a half-eaten edible next to you.

Sometimes healing isn’t a deep breath and a mantra. Sometimes it’s Shaun the Schnauzer smushed against your face like a little soft helmet for your anxiety. Sometimes it’s remembering that comfort is allowed. That not every moment has to be optimized for growth. That maybe holding something squishy is growth.

🌈

🌙 not hiding anymore, and that’s kinda revolutionary

Once upon a time, I hid my stuffed animals under the bed like shameful secrets. Now? They’re riding shotgun on coffee runs, photobombing Discord calls, and occupying sacred desk space next to my emotional support water bottle.

(Also, shoutout to Wilka the Cat. She's the best late-night TV watching buddy, always down for a movie marathon, and somehow knows exactly when to flop over dramatically during the boring parts.)

There’s something radical about not hiding the things that make us feel safe. There’s something brave about softness. It’s like telling the world: yeah, I need comfort. And no, I’m not sorry about it. 🦋

📱 from bartering at recess to bonding online

We used to trade Beanie Babies like tiny Wolf of Wall Street interns. Now? We’re in group chats and Discord servers trading tips on where to find the rarest Squish at 9pm on a Tuesday. And it’s... so much sweeter.

We’re not just collecting anymore—we’re connecting. Sharing photos. Little backstories. Swooning over each other’s shelves like proud grandparents. It feels less transactional and more communal. Like we’re collectively saying, “Hey, you like weird soft things that make your brain feel quiet? Me too.”

💝

✨ this isn’t just nostalgia—it’s rebellion

I know people like to joke that Squishmallows are the new Beanie Babies(Hi, It's Me). But I think they’re more than that. They’re gentle acts of rebellion. Against burnout. Against hyper-productivity. Against all the messaging that says adulthood means cutting off your feelings and drinking your trauma through a stainless steel straw.

Squishmallows say: feel it. Rest. Be weird. Be cozy. Take a nap and try again tomorrow.

Honestly? They’re little plush permission slips to be exactly where you are, as you are. And that feels sacred.

🌸

💫 if you’re curled up with your own squish right now... hi, I love you

Maybe you’re reading this in bed with one tucked under your arm. Or eyeing the clearance bin at Target with quiet longing. Maybe your squish has a name and a personality and you feel a tiny flicker of shame when you tell people about it. Let that go.

You’re not silly. You’re not too old. You’re surviving. And if a rainbow octopus or avocado with a face is what gets you through the mess of it all? That’s not regression—it’s resilience.