When Your Five-Year-Old Explains Interdimensional Travel
And You Realize She's the Genius
"You can make a portal. All you need is fire. Fire. You put the crystal near the fire, and the crystal starts to get ready. Then you take it out, you throw it and it makes a portal for you, and you say, I pretend, you say, 'I want to go into my Auntie DiDi's.' And then I'm there. At my Auntie Didi's."
I'm walking to daycare with my five-year-old on my shoulders, and she's casually explaining interdimensional travel like she's reading from a physics textbook. My first instinct is to nod along and redirect her attention to something more "practical"—like not losing her lip chap or remembering to listen to her teacher.
Then it hits me: She's not just making stuff up. She's problem-solving.
The Crystal Portal Theory (It's Brilliant, Actually)
Let me break down her logic here, because the more I think about it, the more genius it becomes.
She's carrying this little rock in her hoodie pocket—just a random stone she found and decided was a "cool crystal." To me, it's pocket junk. To her, it's a transportation device with very specific operating instructions.
"You put the crystal near the fire, and the crystal starts to get ready."
Notice: the crystal doesn't just magically work. It requires preparation. There's a process, a ritual. Fire activates it. This isn't chaos magic—this is methodical.
"Then you take it out, you throw it and it makes a portal for you."
There's intention here. Direction. She's not randomly teleporting—she's choosing her destination.
"And you say, I pretend, you say, 'I want to go into my Auntie Didi's.' And then I'm there."
The destination isn't arbitrary. It's specific: Auntie Didi's house. Why?
"Because Auntie can drive in the car."
Holy shit. She's solved a real problem.
She wants to see her aunt who lives far away. She knows driving requires being sixteen and having a license. She's five. Therefore, she needs an alternative transportation method. Crystal portal it is.
The logic is flawless.
What I Almost Missed
I could have dismissed this as cute kid imagination. Instead, I found myself asking follow-up questions: "Because Auntie can drive in the car?"
That led to a whole conversation about when people learn to drive, what jobs require, and her future plans ("When I can see that I have a job, I can learn to drive.").
But here's what really stopped me: this wasn't just fantasy. This was a five-year-old demonstrating sophisticated understanding of:
Cause and effect (fire + crystal = activation)
Process and preparation (things need to get "ready")
Problem identification (distance from loved ones)
Creative solution generation (interdimensional travel)
Resource management (one crystal, multiple potential destinations)
She'd identified a genuine emotional need—missing Auntie Didi—and invented a solution using the tools available to her five-year-old understanding of how the world works.
Meanwhile, I'm over here struggling to figure out carpools and wondering why adults make everything so complicated.
The Moment Everything Clicked
Earlier that morning, she'd made another casual observation that knocked me sideways. We were talking about her panda stuffed animal and family connections, and I'd explained that she was "one-quarter Auntie Didi" because that's how genetics work.
Her response?
"My love is related to my whole family."
I'm standing there thinking I'm teaching her about inheritance and family traits, and she's explaining the entire emotional ecosystem of human connection in seven words. She's telling me that love isn't individual—it's shared, distributed across a network of relationships that includes aunts who live far away and somehow transmit their enthusiasms through time and space.
That's when I realized: I've been having these conversations all wrong.
What She's Really Teaching Me
I used to think my job was to guide her toward "realistic" thinking. To gently redirect her imagination toward more practical concerns. To help her understand how the world "actually" works.
But what if she already understands something I've forgotten?
What if believing in crystal portals isn't childish—it's hopeful? What if her elaborate solutions to impossible problems demonstrate creativity and persistence rather than disconnection from reality?
She wants to see people she loves. Adults tell her that's complicated—you need cars, schedules, money, time off work. She says, "What if we used magic crystals?"
Who's really thinking outside the box here?
The Real Magic
The crystal portal isn't about magic. It's about refusing to accept that distance makes love impossible. It's about believing that if you want something badly enough—if you love someone deeply enough—there has to be a way.
She's five years old, carrying a rock in her pocket, explaining interdimensional travel to her dad. But she's also demonstrating that the desire to connect with people you love is worth the effort of inventing new forms of transportation.
That's not childish. That's beautiful. That’s beginner’s mind.
And maybe—just maybe—it's exactly the kind of thinking that changes the world.
What I'm Trying Now
Instead of redirecting her elaborate explanations, I'm asking follow-up questions. Instead of correcting her "unrealistic" solutions, I'm trying to understand the problems she's actually solving.
When she tells me about crystal portals, I ask about the process. When she explains her spring-themed outfit choices, I want to know her reasoning. When she makes connections that seem random, I follow the thread she's pulling.
Because here's what I'm learning: kids aren't just small adults with limited vocabulary. They're humans operating with completely different assumptions about what's possible.
They believe in magic because they haven't learned it's impossible. They see solutions we've trained ourselves to ignore. They ask questions we've stopped asking because we think we already know the answers.
Maybe the real magic isn't crystal portals. Maybe it's remembering that the world is still full of possibilities when you're five years old and believe that love is worth bending the laws of physics.
The Challenge
This week, when your kid explains something elaborate and fantastical, don't just nod along. Ask follow-up questions. Find the logic they're following. Discover what problem they're actually trying to solve.
You might find out that their "silly" ideas are sophisticated solutions to real challenges. You might learn that their imagination isn't escapism—it's problem-solving without artificial limitations.
You might discover that believing impossible things isn't foolish. It's the first step toward making them possible.
And maybe, just maybe, you'll remember what it feels like to carry magic in your pocket and know exactly how to use it.