Category Archives: Family and Community

Augusta’s Final Dance

By Avi Sogani, age 12, California.

I sat glued to our TV on a cool California April morning beside my dad.
Almost hundred years of traditions live at Augusta National, where the Masters first began.
The aroma of freshly cut grass wafts on the gentle breeze,
as the fairways and the undulating greens shine under the perfect morning light of this splendid day.

He steps onto the final tee, holding onto his lead,
just a few swings away from winning the legendary green jacket.
His tee shot flies past the spectators,
before diving sharply into a steep bunker.

Golf is unpredictable like that, with frustration looming at every turn,
but this golfer just breathes, returns to his process, and refuses to give up.
Even in the toughest situations, he can find a way out.
He requires patience, determination, and a deep belief that he can do this.

He hits his shot over the deceiving water hazard, landing it five feet from the pin,
as the audience applauds feverishly.

His putt drips into the cup as he hoists his clenched fist in the air.
The crowd erupts like a volcano,
and he wins the tournament.

Moments like this make this aggravating game something unforgettable.

He shakes hands with the dejected runner-up,
whose quiet eyes ask the question
every golfer knows:
what could have been?

I know that feeling very well.
Next time I am out on the course, I will remind myself to be more like Rory.

By Avi Sogani, age 12, California. He writes: “I am sharing my poem that reflects my passion for the game of golf… I spend most of my weekends either playing golf in local tournaments, reading golf books, or following it on television. Watching the Masters tournament with my dad is a yearly tradition I cherish very much. This poem tries to capture the emotions I experience both on and off the course.

“I am hoping the readers walk away remembering that even the best players in the world may make mistakes in big moments. What matters is to continue to believe in yourself, stay focused and disciplined to reach your goals in life.”

From Gauls to Gummies: The International History Olympiad in Paris

From Gauls to Gummies:
A Week of History, Friendship, and Growth
at the International History Olympiad in Paris

“Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.”
—William Butler Yeats.

By Sahil Prasad, grade 10, Maryland.

More Than Buzzers and Scoreboards
When you hear the words “Quiz Olympiad”, most people imagine fierce competition, flashing buzzers, and rooms filled with the silence of anticipation. And they wouldn’t be wrong. A lot of that happened at the 2025 International History Olympiad (IHO) held in Paris, France, from July 20th to 26th. The amount of time and studying that goes into preparing for the Olympiad is unparalleled. I dove into the timelines of French history, art, and literature from the Gauls living in Roman-era France to the quirks surrounding the policies of the current President Macron, not to mention the enormously confusing list of kings sharing the name “Louis.” I studied the paintings of Jacques-Louis David and the classics of stellar novelists like Flaubert and Sartre. The International History Olympiad was unlike any competition I had ever taken part in.

I started academic competitions all the way back in third grade when I played at my local History Bee and joined my school’s It’s Academic Quizbowl Club run by Dr. and Mrs. Seifter who started the club as an avenue for young kids in my area to get into Quizbowl, a sport that, as you can imagine, is quite a jump from the history we were learning at school (it wasn’t even called history until Middle School).

Preparing for Paris
The Olympiad is run by International Academic Competitions (IAC), a company founded by David Madden (who was a Jeopardy! champion with a 19-day winning streak).

Moi and IHO Director and Former Jeopardy Champion David Madden awarded me my plaque; the top 20 players at the 2025 International History Olympiad received one.

IAC has held many Olympiads in the past. In fact, the 2025 Olympiad was my third time in the ring. This time, they had selected Paris, France as the host city for the competition. The event was held at the École Jeannine Manuel, a large school campus in Paris that could fit all the 400 plus students from many nations that came for the Olympiad. The school is right in the middle of the bustling heap that is Paris with falafel shops, pizza parlors, Thai restaurants, and Indian restaurants—a truly international setting that perfectly complemented this global Olympiad.

When Rivals Became Friends
The 2025 International History Olympiad certainly had all the stressful aspects: tense moments, tight scores, and many incredibly sharp competitors from all over the world. But over the years, for me, it has become something far more meaningful: it was an avenue where I could connect with my friends from all over the world and have fun as much with knowledge exchanges as playing games, while also competing at a prestigious and international level. It’s where I made some of the best friendships of my life.

The Olympiad brought together students from over 30 countries. For a week, we competed in a variety of events from the International History Bee World Championships (an individual buzzer-based history quiz competition) and the Art History Bee to Table Combined (an event dividing half the available points between table tennis games and history questions). Some of my most memorable moments included buzzing in on the Mask of Nefertiti, an Egyptian artwork I ignorantly perceived as “not famous enough” until it won me a crucial round in the Ancient History Bee and my buzz that earned me a silver medal in the Art History Bee, namely, answering with the correct answer of “Ophelia” (thanks Taylor), that I recognized from her position in the water from the famous John Millais painting.

The competition was fierce, but most of the time, the environment was far from tense. Between rounds, laughter echoed in the halls of École Jeannine Manuel. Students from different continents swapped stories about their schools, their countries, and their favorite historical figures. In one instance, we’d be debating who would win the overall championship and immediately switch to debating whether Haribo sour gummies were better plain or in the mix-and-match bags with marshmallows. It was in these moments that I realized the true essence of the Olympiad: it wasn’t about defeating others, but discovering what connects us all, our shared love of history and what matters most, the fact that we are all young adults!

My competitors quickly became my friends. We shared strategies before events, encouraged one another during tough rounds, and celebrated together when the medals were announced. I still remember standing with players from Canada, the Philippines, and Singapore as we compared scores after a particularly close History Bee, the sense of mutual respect was clear, even in the face of competition.

With my friends/competitors from the Philippines

I distinctly remember the French History Bee held under the gaze of the Eiffel Tower, we were running around, playing tag, and simultaneously discussing our favorite figures in French History before the soon to be competitive match. This drastic contrast between a game of tag and an international-level academic competition event separated by mere minutes can only be found at the International History Olympiad.

Finalists of the French History Bee waiting to buzz to win under the Eiffel Tower

When I won two silver medals and one bronze for Maryland, it was certainly a proud moment, but what I remember most vividly is the sense of belonging. The Olympiad taught me that true success isn’t measured solely in rankings or medals but in the experiences that stay with you. Competing against some of the brightest young minds in the world challenged me to think more deeply and work harder. The knowledge I gained while preparing—and the opportunity to compete on that stage—felt like a gold medal in itself.

One of my favorite parts of the Olympiad was how it blended fun with intellectual challenge. Each day, after intense competition, we got to participate in cultural excursions and light-hearted events that let us unwind and connect beyond the game. I particularly remember my visit to the Père Lachaise cemetery on the outskirts of the city with my mother and fellow competitors. I felt a sense of gratitude toward figures like Honoré de Balzac and Félix Faure, and many of the other historical figures about whom I was knowledgeable about and hence got me to Paris in the first place to compete and won me many of the medals I returned home with.

A Community I’ll Carry Forward
The International History Olympiad wasn’t just a competition; it was a reminder that knowledge can bridge cultures and unite people from across the globe. It showed me that while history may be made up of countless conflicts and divisions, studying it together and competing can bring out the best human connections. And as I returned home from Paris, with memories of laughter and moments of triumph, I realized that the real victory was not in winning medals, but in finding a community that celebrates curiosity, fun, and knowledge.

I can’t wait to return to the next International History Olympiad in 2027. It will be my last one as a high school student. I know these memories will last me a lifetime!

###

The International History Olympiad is held every two years, and will next take place in Summer 2027, likely in Berlin (Germany), London (UK), or Lisbon (Portugal). To learn more about the Olympiad as well as the annual National History Bee, please visit www.historyolympiad.com and www.iacompetitions.com/our-competitions. For questions about the Olympiad or any other IAC events, please contact International Academic Competitions’ Executive Director David Madden at david@iacompetitions.com.

Sahil Prasad, grade 10, Maryland, has published a number of articles in Skipping Stones.

Four Poems by Mayank Yadav

Mother

Mother is the one who cares for me
She keeps me safe, like a big tree.
Her smile is soft, her heart is kind
She always has me on her mind.

SHE teaches me what is good and what’s bad
She is always with me when I’m sad.
God says he can’t be everywhere
So he gave me a mom who always cares and shares
Who helps me grow, layer by layer.

She is important because she loves me everyday
She teaches me what’s right in a simple way.
Sure, She scolds me a little
But she’s always with me when I’m ill.

You are useless if your mom becomes sad because of you
Mom is like a diamond, always cherish and know her value.

By Mayank Yadav, age 12, Jharkhand, India.

Student life

Student life is not easy at all,
Sometimes we rise, sometimes we fall.
We smile outside and try to be strong,
But inside we feel something is wrong.

We study hard day and night,
Still grades decide if we are “right.”
We get tired but don’t give up,
We keep trying and keep growing up.

Some days we feel happy and bright,
Some days we cry alone at night.
YET every day teaches us something new—
How to be brave, and how to push through.

Student life has pain and fear,
But also hope that keeps our heads above water.
One day all our hard work will matter,
And the world will see how far we can soar.

By Mayank Yadav, age 12, Jharkand, India.

A Middle-Class Family

We don’t have gold or cars so wide,
But we have love and joy inside.
Papa works hard from morning till night,
Mummy’s care makes everything right

School bag old, but dreams so high,
Wishing stars in a small sky.
We save, we share, we sometimes wait,
Still smile together, call it fate.

No big house or fancy ride,
But strong hearts walk side by side.
Festivals simple, but full of cheer,
Happiness grows when all are near.

We may not be rich in money or fame,
But middle-class love is never lame!

By Mayank Yadav, age 12, Jharkand, India.

Under the Water

Under the water, deep and wide,
Fish and turtles swim and glide.
Crabs walk slowly on the sand,
Jellyfish move like a magic band.
Octopus hides behind a rock,
Starfish sleeps near a sea-shell clock.
Dolphins jump and play all day,
In the ocean, far away.

Waves above and calm below,
Under the sea, the magic flows.
Seahorses float, so small and sweet,
Tiny shells lie near their feet.
Bright blue fish go zip and zoom,
Dancing gently in ocean’s room.
Come with me, let’s take a ride,
To the sea world, deep inside!

By Mayank Yadav, age 12, Jharkand, India. He lives in the Province of Jharkhand, in an extended family—with his father (Ranjan), mother (Kumari Sangita), older sister (Shreya Ranjan), grandfather (Kedarnath), and grandmother (Bina Devi).

In Defense of Dirt: Rewilding Our Children

In Defense of Dirt: Rewilding Our Children
Before their Bodies Forget

From Finnish forest floors to Michigan creek beds, the science is clear:
real dirt is medicine, memory, and the immune system’s original teacher

By Thom Hartmann, author, speaker, activist, and educator

I grew up on the edge of Lansing, Michigan, with a stream just down the road and woods that felt like a secret frontier. We all did: the neighborhood kids, barefoot in the damp grass after rain, boots mucked up with creek-silt, hands scrubbed raw from climbing fallen logs and digging in the undergrowth. Getting in the dirt was part of childhood. We didn’t ask permission from microbes.

So when I read the recent report in The Guardian about Finnish nursery experiments transforming children’s health by simply letting them play in real soil, sand, leaves and forest-floor, I felt the past crash into the present and I knew again that the story of our species and our health lies in that innocent, messy contact.

In Finland, at a daycare center in Lahti (north of Helsinki), the researchers from the Natural Resources Institute of Finland adopted a radical experiment: rip out the asphalt, dig into the soil, roll out a live carpet of forest-floor moss and blueberry bushes, build compost heaps for children to feed, invite the kids to play, dig, muddle, get their hands in it.

The result, in a two-year study of three- to five-year-olds, was striking: children in the “rewilded” yards had fewer disease-causing skin bacteria (like Streptococcus) and showed stronger immune regulation (increased T-regulatory cells) within weeks. Gut microbiomes were healthier, inflammatory-associated Clostridium levels dropped.

This is the antithesis of today’s “modern” societal perspective on childhood and nature.

On the one hand, we have the modern obsession with pristine, sanitized lives: rubber-surfaced playgrounds, plastic mats, antibacterial everything. On the other, there’s the simple fact that our inner biology, our immune systems, our gut and skin microbiomes, were forged in the wild: the wild of forest floors, streams, soils, plants, bugs.

As I argued in my earlier essay “It’s All One Thing – The Story of the Worms” here in Wisdom School, our estrangement from that substrate is the seed of auto-immune disorders, of chronic inflammation, and a body that’s forgotten it’s actually part of nature.

In Michigan I was lucky: the woods and stream were mine for the exploring. I remember fingers crawling over moist logs, the smell of leaves turning, the damp cold run-off water slipping under my boots. I didn’t know at the time that those experiences were more than play: they were calibration.

They were training my immune system, teaching my skin and gut to know what nature looked like and smelled like and felt like. To know that dirt is not an enemy. And those childhood experiences are probably why I’ve never been troubled by autoimmune disorders or asthma.

So let’s call this what it is: a radical restoration. Not of some exotic wilderness, but of our lost contact with the natural microbial terrains that co-evolved with our species. The Finnish results are more than a Kindergarten trend; they’re a signal of what our children—and we all—are missing.

Here are some of the stakes:

When kids play in dirt rich with soil microbes, their immune system steps into a healthier balance: fewer disease-causing bacteria on the skin surface, greater regulation of internal immune responses.
The “outer layer” of biodiversity—soil, plants, forest floor—directly influences the “inner layer” of biodiversity in our bodies, our skin, gut, and airways. This is co-evolved, not incidental.
The modern shift away from exposure—to “sterile” play surfaces, indoor confinement, sanitized surfaces—may appear benign, but it’s been quietly shaping the epidemic rise of allergies, auto-immune disorders, and inflammatory diseases that both disturb the quality of life and can shorten lifespan itself.
This is not just personal wellness: it’s ecological and societal. The health of children, the immune burdens we carry, the resilience of future generations: all of this ties back to whether we let the next generation touch the living earth.
In the Finnish classroom yard they said: “We’re moving the action from inside to outside. We want to show the children nature so they learn about it.”

That sentence is packed. Show the children nature. Let them learn through contact, through play, through mess. Not as a museum piece, not as a “nature corridor” behind a fence, but as the ground they run on, dig in, climb across, whose bugs and fungus mix with theirs.

So, I want to issue a personal call to you—if you have children, nieces, nephews—or if you’re planning for grandchildren—or if you’re simply human, who used to feel the dirt under your fingernails and the creek cold on your shins—do this: Let the next generation get messy.

Plant a compost heap. Bring real soil into the sandbox. Create a border of moss and stones. Let the rain puddle, let the bugs crawl, let the children burrow. Let the forest floor not be exotic but ordinary.

I remember that stream down the road from the house I grew up in, the woods on the edge of Lansing, the sticky Michigan clay, the little fish, frogs, and crawdads under rocks, the mud mixing into water. I remember coming home with smudged socks, grass stains and a face kissed by sap.

I didn’t know at the time that I was feeding my immune system. I simply knew I was alive and it was a thrill.

We’ve forgotten that aliveness. Our culture has prized immaculateness, separation from the “dirty” wild, the exclusion of microbes like we exclude strangers. Yet the wildness is in us. The soil is in us. We’re made of the same living matrix as the tree roots and the beetles and the moss. Broken contact with that matrix isn’t harmless: it’s a literal loss.

In the wise old words I referenced in “It’s All One Thing”: “When we remove ourselves from that web of life, we do so at our own peril.”

The Finnish story is not just cute or scientific: it’s urgent. Rebuild our contact with the living earth. Let children scoop sand and soil, let them bury their hands, let them build mud-cakes like Aurora in Finland’s day-care. Laugh as they smear soil on their faces. It’s not chaos: it’s calibration.

Yes, modernization has brought us many gifts. Clean water. Sanitation. Vaccines. But modernization taken too far, with too much separation from our biological roots, leaves us with immune systems that misfire, bodies that mistake harmless soil microbes for threats, children who never taste actual dirt. The Finnish experiment is clear: get back to the soil, get back to the forest floor, get back to the messy, ordinary earth.

And the earth—our living earth—benefits too. More forest-floor carpets. More compost heaps. More kids playing outside, fewer rubber mats, fewer sterile boxes. We begin to treat biodiversity as not just glamorous (rainforests, coral reefs) but local (yard patches, old tree stumps, rain puddles). We begin to remember that our health is tied to the health of that biodiversity.

So my invitation to you: On your next weekend, find a patch of ground the kids (or you!) can mess with. Dig into it. Feel the soil. Let a leaf rot into the compost. Let worms do their work. Let the world pull you back. Because we’re not apart from nature: we are nature. And when we pretend otherwise, we hurt ourselves and the world around us.

It’s time to stop treating microbes as abstract threats or invisible villains. They are—and have always been—our companions, our allies, our ancestral family. The Finnish children’s laughter in the sandy forest-floor yard is our ancient laughter too.

Let’s dig in.

—Thom Hartmann, educator and commentator, is the author of many respected books. Reprinted with permission. To receive new Wisdom School posts you can become a free or paid subscriber of this reader-supported digital publication, The Wisdom School: What It Means To Be Human. All Wisdom School articles are free and available to everyone. Copyright by Thom Hartmann, 2025.

The Humane Hoax

The Humane Hoax: Animal Industry’s Labels and Lies

By Hope Bohanec, author and activist, Oregon

As consumers become aware of the animal agriculture industry’s cruelty and environmental impact, clever industry marketers adapt with “humane” labels, small-scale tall tales, and other feel-good falsehoods. The term “humane hoax” is defined as new language and labels in animal product marketing that convey a false narrative of humane treatment and sustainable management of farmed animal operations. The marketing language and euphemistic labels tell a story of a supposed distinction from conventional animal products. But the reality on the ground, in the manure pits, during the mechanical milking, and inside the terrifying slaughterhouse, is fundamentally unchanged, despite promises to consumers of something new. Humanewashing and greenwashing are becoming more prevalent and pervasive than ever.

Also encompassed in the concept of the humane hoax is the new trend of people attempting to “do-it-yourself” with backyard farmed animal raising and slaughtering, generally with good intentions, but all too often, with cruel consequences. It has never been more important to educate people on the truth behind the industry lies, and people are hungry for the truth.

Overview:

In the time since I wrote the first book on the subject of the humane hoax, called The Ultimate Betrayal: Is There Happy Meat?, consumer awareness of the suffering of farmed animals has grown exponentially and so has the “alternative” animal product industry. “Cage-free,” “Certified Humane,” and other comforting labels are no longer elusive—dusty items only seen in the back corners of health food stores. They are now as common and numerous as cattle on a feedlot, spotted in common places like Walmart and your local coffee shop. In 2010, eggs labeled cage-free were a mere four percent of the market; that had risen to sixteen percent by 2017. The industry predicts that to meet consumer demand, cage-free production will be seventy-five percent of the market by 2026.

It is a hopeful sign that consumers are demanding better treatment for animals, but the actual difference in the life and death experience for a cow or a chicken with humane labeling is sadly minimal. I have done extensive research on this issue, interviewed numerous stakeholders, and personally visited multiple animal operations, and concluded that these unregulated labels mean very little, if anything at all, for the animal’s experience. I have examined this particular area of farmed animal advocacy, having written the first, and one of the only books on the topic, and having been professionally involved in the field for over two decades. I found, for example, that comparing hens confined in battery cages to those in cage-free barns bodes only slight improvements and those differences can vary widely from farm to farm.

Animal activists have time and again exposed the horrors of egg-laying hens crammed tightly in battery cages, with only the space comparable to a crowded elevator to live in. In response, the shrewd marketers representing the egg industry have distorted the story, altered the labels, and changed consumers’ conceptions. Instead of rejecting the inherent cruelty of commercial egg production, shoppers have been deceived by the fictitious choice of a seemingly “humane” alternative of “cage-free”—but the reality for the birds, however, is bleak.

The difference in the experience of a bird in a conventionally managed operation versus a cage-free one is negligible. Despite the optimistic label, most chickens in cage-free egg facilities still live in miserable overcrowded conditions in massive windowless buildings. Their eyes and throats burn from the ammonia gas released from their accumulated waste. They never feel the sun on their wings or experience a simple satisfying dust bath. Irrespective of any label, all the chickens still go to a brutal slaughter at a very young age. We must not let the deception of “new” marketing eclipse the fundamental cruelty of animal agriculture. The perception invoked by the “cage-free” label—that the birds are now living a good life—is a decidedly false one, a mirage created by the interaction of euphemisms and consumer hopes in the absence of accurate information.

As animal agribusiness attempts to wash the blood off its hands with a new fabrication of fresh farming methods, consumers, activists, and other caring people must educate themselves about the new narratives that the industry continues to weave. This anthology features a range of knowledgeable authors who are at the forefront of this marketing shift, chronicling every aspect with in-depth analyses and intellectual rigor. Among other topics, the book explores how so-called alternative animal agriculture intersects with feminism, affects the environment, is represented in the media, and impacts human and non-human communities alike.

On Contributors to the Anthology:

This anthology has an impressive list of contributing writers who are a diverse assortment of activists, academics, authors, and campaigners. They range from radical protesters to educating advocates to professional scholars in the academy. Of the seventeen expert contributors, eight are published authors, five leaders of advocacy organizations, eight have Ph.D. degrees, and three have masters. What they all share is a forward-thinking vision and common concerns with animal agriculture’s marketing shift from big to small, from industrial to local.

The Humane Hoax contains essays by noted animal rights and environmentalism figures like Carol Adams, Robert Grillo, Sailesh Rao, Karen Davis, and Christopher “Soul” Eubanks. Some of the contributors have done extensive peer-reviewed research on the subject while others have been working with farmed animal advocacy for decades thinking deeply about this issue. Still others are rescuing farmed animals directly from local and small-scale farms, witnessing first-hand the undeniable suffering that is commonplace in animal farming.

The Humane Hoax: Essays Exposing the Myth of Happy Meat, Humane Dairy, and Ethical Eggs; edited by Hope Bohanec. The book is available as a paperback and also as an e-book from Lantern Publishing & Media; lanternpm.org.

The Silent Conversation Between You and Your Bones

Every Impact Is a Message: Stay Alive, Stay Strong, Stay in Motion

By Thom Hartmann, Wisdom School

As Louise and I have aged (our 54th wedding anniversary is in two weeks), we’ve noticed that one of the biggest challenges is keeping our posture straight and our bones from getting brittle. There’s science behind this challenge, and it gives us all suggestions for “keeping young.”

Bone is one of the few tissues in the human body that remains alive and dynamic from birth to death. It’s not the rigid, inert structure most people imagine when they think of skeletons. In fact, it’s constantly growing, dying, dissolving, and rebuilding itself through a delicate dance between two main kinds of cells—osteoblasts and osteoclasts.

This balance is what keeps us upright, protects our organs, and allows our muscles to move us through life. But as we get older, the harmony between building and breaking begins to shift, and the results can be devastating. Understanding how that process happens—and how we might slow or reverse it—is one of the quiet frontiers of aging science.

Bone is built primarily by osteoblasts, the construction workers of our skeleton. They take raw materials—calcium, phosphate, and collagen—and create new bone matrix. This matrix starts out soft, like scaffolding, then mineralizes into the hard tissue we recognize as bone. Opposing them are osteoclasts, which act more like demolition crews. They dissolve old or damaged bone so it can be replaced.

In a healthy adult, these two systems are in balance: every bit of bone that’s broken down is replaced by new bone. But that balance depends on a complex interplay of hormones, mechanical stress, and nutrients that becomes harder to maintain with age.

When we’re young, our bodies prioritize growth and repair. Hormones like growth hormone, estrogen, and testosterone all signal bone-building cells to stay active and reproduce. Even the act of moving—walking, climbing stairs, carrying groceries—tells our bones to stay strong.

Osteoblasts thrive on impact; they literally sense mechanical stress and respond by building more bone where it’s needed. That’s why astronauts lose bone density in zero gravity and bedridden patients lose it quickly in immobilized limbs. Bones are designed for stress. They grow from it, adapt to it, and depend on it.

But aging quietly changes the equation. By the time most people reach their 40s or 50s, osteoblasts start slowing down while osteoclasts keep right on working. Estrogen and testosterone, which protect against bone loss, begin to drop. In women, the sharp decline in estrogen during menopause often leads to an acceleration of bone loss so dramatic it can reach one to two percent per year.

The result is a net thinning of the bones that can culminate in osteopenia or osteoporosis. What’s more, osteoblasts themselves become less responsive to mechanical stress and less efficient at mineralizing new bone, while their numbers dwindle with each passing decade.

Yet, there’s another layer to this story that is both hopeful and cautionary. Bone cells are not fixed in number; they arise from progenitor cells—stem-like precursors in the bone marrow and periosteum (the thin tissue surrounding bones). These progenitor cells can, under the right conditions, become new osteoblasts.

Exercise, especially high-impact weight-bearing exercise, stimulates their differentiation. Nutrients like vitamin D, calcium, and magnesium fuel the process. Even exposure to sunlight, through its effect on vitamin D synthesis, plays a critical role in signaling these cells to mature. In a very real sense, every step we take outdoors in the sunshine is a small act of bone regeneration.

On the other hand, disuse and a sedentary lifestyle send the opposite message. When bones aren’t stressed, the progenitor cells shift toward becoming fat cells instead of bone cells, and osteoclasts take over the stage.

This explains why modern sedentary living, coupled with diets low in essential minerals, has created an epidemic of bone fragility even among people who think of themselves as healthy.

It also explains why impact—whether from walking, jumping, or resistance training—isn’t just good for muscle tone; it’s a direct message to your bones to stay alive.

There’s a growing body of research exploring how bone regeneration might be enhanced as we age. Some of it focuses on pharmacological ways to stimulate osteoblast activity or block osteoclast overactivity, like the bisphosphonate drugs or parathyroid hormone analogs now used for osteoporosis. Others look at stem cell therapies that could replenish the aging pool of bone-forming cells.

But many of the most effective tools we already possess are natural. Regular resistance training, adequate protein intake, and maintaining proper levels of vitamin D and K2 can have profound effects on bone density. The simple act of impact—bones striking the ground, muscles tugging on tendons, joints bearing weight—remains the single most powerful way to keep bones young.

The idea that bone “knows” when it’s being used and responds accordingly is one of nature’s most elegant feedback loops. It means that our skeleton is not a fixed thing but a living organ that senses and adapts to our behavior.

When we stop moving, bones interpret it as a signal that they’re no longer needed and begin to fade away. When we challenge them, they thicken, harden, and renew themselves. Even in old age, this feedback loop can be reawakened, though the gains are slower and more fragile than in youth.

In the larger metaphor of life, bone regeneration is a quiet but powerful reminder of resilience. Every day, millions of microscopic breaks form in our skeleton, and every day they are healed. It’s a never-ending cycle of destruction and renewal that mirrors our emotional and spiritual lives. The same principle applies: stress and impact, handled well, make us stronger. Avoiding stress entirely—physical or emotional—leads to a kind of decay. Growth comes from the right kind of pressure.

So while supplements and science continue to explore the biochemical angles of bone regeneration, the most profound lesson may be a behavioral one. Move every day. Load your bones. Walk, climb, stretch, lift, push.

Feel the impact of your feet on the ground, because your bones are listening. They respond to every signal of life you send them, even late into old age. They want to grow. They’re built to grow. But they require our participation—the literal weight of our will—to keep doing it.

In the end, strong bones are not just the foundation of our physical structure but the embodiment of our relationship with gravity, effort, and resilience itself.

—Thom Hartmann, educator and commentator, is the author of many respected books. Reprinted with permission. To receive new posts you can become a free or paid subscriber of this reader-supported digital publication, The Wisdom School: What it Means to be Human, where all articles are free and available to everyone. Copyright: Thom Hartmann, 2025.

Scrambled Lessons

By Yimeng (Nicole) Wang Yu, age 17, P. R. China

I have an estranged relationship with eggs. We aren’t completely cut off from each other—we still cross paths on occasion—but our encounters are awkward, fleeting, and never quite right. At most, I’m allowed to see them once every couple of weeks, and when I do, they always insist on showing up in some strange outfit. Sometimes they’re draped in a heavy coat of soy sauce, other times they’re wrapped in a knitted avocado-green sweater of their own making, smugly nestled against toast. But bare? Never. On the rare occasions they appear unadorned, it feels less like a gift and more like a threat. My stomach churns, my throat tightens, and my face knots itself into lines I don’t consciously form. I try to be polite, because it isn’t every day I get to share a meal with eggs, but honestly—they make me deeply uncomfortable.

And yet, as repulsed as I am now, I’ve probably consumed entire dynasties of chickens in the form of eggs over the past sixteen years. I grew up in a household where protein was fuel, and eggs were regarded as the most reliable gas station. My parents, convinced that my athleticism required a steady supply of scrambled yellow, believed they were doing me a favor. So, for sixteen years, they placed eggs before me every morning. Scrambled, boiled, fried, buried in fried rice, floating in soup—eggs became the guest at all of my meals.

For years, I wished this unwelcome visitor would finally excuse itself from my breakfasts. I told my parents that eggs made my stomach feel as if it were gnawing on itself from within. My complaints, however, were dismissed as excuses and childish exaggerations. “You’ll get used to it,” my mom would say. “It’s good for you,” my dad would add. And so I swallowed my objections along with the eggs, because, after all, parents must know best. Didn’t they always?

Until last year.

After a lifetime of groans, gags, and grimaces, my mom finally relented and scheduled a food intolerance test. We waited one long week. When the results arrived, it felt as though the SAT scores of my digestive system had been released. My mom and I huddled around the phone, tense with anticipation. Then the screen flashed with numbers, and chaos erupted. There was screaming, crying (mostly mine), leaping, refreshing the page again and again as if the result might shift if stared long enough. The report confirmed what my body had been insisting all along: I was intolerant to eggs. Not just mildly intolerant, either—I had obliterated the intolerance scale. The threshold for high sensitivity was 200. I scored 900. Four and a half times the limit. Eggs and I weren’t simply mismatched; we were sworn enemies, cosmically opposed.

In that moment, years of swallowed frustration finally poured out of me. My intuition had been right, and science had finally corroborated it. Turns out I wasn’t a dramatic complainer. At last, my mom believed me. I was vindicated.

But looking back, I realize those mornings of forced eggs were not acts of cruelty but of love—misguided, perhaps, but love nonetheless. My parents weren’t trying to torture me; they were trying to keep me healthy in the way they knew best. Only now, with hindsight, can I see how much care went into those breakfasts. At the time, I couldn’t imagine it. I just assumed that because my parents insisted, they must be right, and because I was a child, I must be wrong.

It reminds me of the way I thought about growing up in general. As a child, I carried this foreign but persistent belief that everything would improve as I got older. I thought the world itself would change with me—that kindness and fairness were waiting just beyond the next birthday. My greatest problem then was the cafeteria bully, and even that seemed temporary, destined to dissolve once we were all old enough to know better. In my imagination, adulthood was a yet-to-be-discovered place where everyone made good decisions, where people were kinder, wiser, gentler—because they were grown.

Of course, the reality was never that simple. Growing older didn’t fix the world; it merely sharpened my vision to see it more clearly. Eggs did not suddenly stop making me sick when I turned sixteen—it took years of paying attention to myself, of insisting on what I felt, before anyone else would listen. Adulthood did not sanctify those around me—it simply gave me the ability to recognize their complexity, their contradictions, and, sometimes, their well-intentioned mistakes.

In that sense, perhaps I was not entirely wrong as a child. The world did get better—not because it grew kinder, but because I learned how to navigate it. I learned to trust my body when it screamed at me. I learned that being believed is not automatic, even by those who love you most, but that persistence matters. And I learned that the very things that cause you pain can, years later, soften into strangely tender memories.

So yes, eggs and I remain estranged. I avoid them, and I live a happier life because of it. But I can’t quite bring myself to hate eggs. They’re a part of my story, a relic of mornings at the kitchen table with my parents, who—despite their misplaced faith in scrambled yolks—were only ever trying to love me in the way they knew how. And maybe that’s what growing up really is: not escaping discomfort, but learning to hold it alongside love, until the bitterness—or the grossness—tastes almost sweet.

—Yimeng (Nicole) Wang Yu is a 17-year-old junior at Shanghai American School, P.R. China. She grew up in Spain and now lives in China, and she speaks, reads, and writes in English, Chinese, Spanish, and French. When she isn’t writing, she can be found on the basketball court, blasting music through her AirPods, or noticing the small, everyday details that might inspire her next piece—sometimes all at once.

The Little Princess and the Colorful Butterflies

By Diponkar Chanda, Ontario, Canada

No one remembered the name of the kingdom anymore, but it did exist, a long ago!

Far, far away, nestled close to a forest, there was a tiny village, and it was the seat of this kingdom. There was a palace as well; but not like the ones in our big cities.

This palace was very different. Its walls were made of straw and clay, it had a thatched roof, and it stood gently beneath the sky, like a well-kept secret.

In this palace lived a little princess with her ancient grandmother.

One sunny morning in spring, when a sweet breeze was blowing, birds were chirping joyfully, and flowers bloomed in every corner of the yard, the little princess woke up.

She rubbed her eyes, looked out the window, and noticed something—their little walls didn’t seem as colorful as the world outside.

The trees wore fresh green dresses. The flowers in the meadows sparkled with red, yellow, pink, and purple. Even the butterflies danced in colors—too bright and too many to name them here!

Pale Swallowtail Butterfly. Photo by Herb Everett, Oregon.

Monarch Butterfly. Photo by Ted Rose, Indiana.

The princess longed to bring those colors into their home, their palace.

And she knew, like everyone else in the kingdom, that the true owners of all the colors were those beautiful butterflies.

So, the little princess wanted to catch one. But she was far too little.

Art by Makayla Liu, age 12, Vancouver, Canada.

No one else was home, so she turned to her granny. Now, her granny was like eighty or a hundred years old, or maybe even more. Nobody really knew how old she was. She was the oldest person in the whole kingdom. And, she was certainly far too old to run after those butterflies!

What could they do?

The old woman thought for a moment. Then she searched the hut carefully—every corner, every pouch, every pot.

Finally, she found something she was searching for, a little fistful of sunflower seeds. She smiled.

Granny stepped outside into the wide, sleepy yard. With her slow, gentle feet, she planted the seeds in tidy rows and began to care for them. She watered them every day, with all the love in her heart.

Days passed. Little by little, green shoots appeared. Then leaves. Then came tall, strong stems.

And then one morning, a thousand sunflowers bloomed across the yard—each one like a small sun, shining with golden joy.

Granny didn’t need to chase butterflies anymore.

The butterflies came to them—fluttering, dancing, and painting the air with their beautiful colors.

And you know what?

They shared their colors generously. And from then, true beauty arouse on the boundless canvas of nature—born from careful sharing.

And the little palace also sparkled with butterfly colors—reds, oranges, blues, and purples that no brush could ever copy.

Not just the tiny palace, but also the little princess herself sparkled with those attractive colors.

Her smile shone with every color of the butterflies.

And from that day on, little princess learned that true beauty grows many-fold when we share it with everyone, with profound care.

Diponkar Chanda is an emerging writer based in greater Toronto area of Canada. Originally from Bangladesh, he writes stories and poetry that bridge cultures, languages, and imagination. English is not his first language, and he brings the rhythm and depth of his native Bangla (also known as the Bengali) language into his storytelling.

Art by Makayla Liu, age 12, Vancouver, Canada. She adds: “I’ve loved drawing since I was a child, and in the future I hope to work in a field related to drawing or character design.”

Stuffed

By Claire Chen, age 11, New Jersey.

Stuffed, stuffed, the house is stuffed
With stuffed toys that need to be thrown out
A waste of space
I am told to get rid of them!

But when I look around
Memories abound
First, the dozens of stuffed Pokemon
Evoke memories of family trips to Japan
I cradle an Eevee, a treasured prize won
With bated breath at a claw machine in Tokyo
I squeeze Lapras, the comforting pillow I hugged
On the 18-hour flight to visit family
I can almost still hear my brother’s high-pitched shrieks
During our made-up game of Pokemon Dodgeball
Can I let them go?

Next, the stuffed shaved ice from Singapore
Its name—Ice Kachang* —reminds me
Of Singlish and its foreign yet endearing sounds
English, Mandarin, Hokkien**, and Malay smashed
Into one bizarre hodgepodge
Intelligible only to insiders
Like Singlish, I am a mash
Of American and Asian
Do others understand me?

Then, a stuffed chocolate bar
A souvenir from Hershey
During my grandmother’s first and last visit
Before the chemotherapy failed
The only stuffed toy she ever bought for me
Mum says Grandma never bought her stuffed toys
But that time, she got one for me
Isn’t it a souvenir of her?

Stuffed, stuffed, my mind is stuffed
Stuffed with memories I want to keep in
Precious treasures
That only I hold in my heart

Notes:
*Kachang is the Malay word for nuts
**Hokkien is a Southern Chinese dialect

By Claire Chen, age 11, New Jersey. She adds: “My parents were born in Singapore but I was born in America. My family visits Singapore or Japan nearly every year because we have family in those countries. I speak and write both English and Mandarin, but it takes a lot of time and effort to learn Mandarin in America and I find it very difficult. My mother wanted me to learn Mandarin so I could understand her culture better. However, when we visit Singapore, they do not often speak Mandarin. They speak a version of English that they call “Singlish.” It is a mixture of several local languages, mainly Mandarin, Hokkien (a Southern Chinese dialect), Malay, and English. Singlish can be quite confusing for me—something I mention in my poem.”
“I was inspired to write this poem, titled Stuffed, because I have a lot of stuffed toys and my mum often talks about getting rid of them to reduce clutter in the house. But these items all have histories and meaning to me.”

Revenge in Rockford: A Chess Story

By Aarav Patel, grade 9, Illinois.

I place my rook two spaces up and say, “Check.” A small grin tugs at my lips while those around me sigh in disappointment.

This was my second ever chess tournament and my first played against someone rated higher than me. My dad and I had traveled for one-and-a-half hours to a hotel in Rockford to participate in it. It was a step up from my debut tournament, with an elegant conference room, transformed into a symmetrical chess grid with dozens of rows.

My third opponent was a middle-aged man who seemed to be the type to promote to eight queens and checkmate well after he could’ve won already. Our game started with him consulting his friends in front of me on which opening to play. It was as if the game was not serious to him. He said that he hadn’t lost all day and was not going to start now. His friends laughed, but laughing was the last thing on my mind. I responded with a fake smile, as my body tensed up.

My first ever chess match was against my uncle and aunt when I was in the 2nd grade. I already knew how the pieces moved, but I knew no strategy. As you can imagine, it didn’t end well for me. When they check-mated me, I winced. I tried to figure out what I did wrong. I realized that I was looking only at what the next move would be, not two moves or even three moves ahead. I asked to play again, and this time improved by lasting a whole 10 minutes.

During the years between my first chess tournament in 2nd grade and this, my second chess tournament in 6th grade, I’d joined the school chess club. I’d also achieved a 1,000 ELO chess rating online, achieving true intermediate status. And I started traveling for competitions. Before playing my egotistical opponent, I had won both of my previous games, leading up to the final against him.

At the beginning of the match, I was down a couple of pawns. He stared across the room, as if he were longing to leave. Before the middle-game, he stood up and completely left our board to walk around and watch other matches. I regained an even position after tactically winning two pawns via a pin on his king. At that point he stopped wandering. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples.

It had been a long day. I hadn’t seen the sun for hours and my body was aching from sitting in a stiff, wooden chair. His anxiety gave me the energy to continue being aggressive. After some material trading, we reached the endgame.

The endgame was the longest part of the match. By the time we reached it, nearly all the other games had finished. My opponent shook his head and let out a small sigh.

I recall watching the French Open earlier this year between Carlos Alcaraz and Jannik Sinner. Sinner dominated the competition for hours. He was the world number #1 and Alcaraz came up against multiple championship points. Yet Alcaraz kept coming back. At the end of the grueling five-hour saga, Alcaraz won. How Alcaraz didn’t let the intimidation or the pressure of millions of people get to him was impressive.

I saw him advance his pawn, and I thought back to the game against my uncle and aunt. What could they see that I couldn’t? But this time I saw. I sacrificed my rook to check and move his king into a fatal position. His friends, who had told him which opening to play, surrounded the board. Mouths agape, they stared at it like my friend Austin stares at a quadratic equation. The end was near.

My opponent knew what was going on. He played his next move in disbelief. He leaned into the board, letting the shock seep in. And then, I moved my queen…Checkmate.

By Aarav Patel. He adds: “I am a 9th grader from Illinois. I am Indian-American, and I mainly speak and write in English. I wrote this piece to show how chess has impacted me and shaped my way of thinking. Specifically, it taught me how to stay determined and focused, even when the pressure is on.”