I was four years old, frozen at the top of the stairs at my grandma's house. I would not go down. All these years later, I can still see it: the dark waiting at the bottom, and the light casting a shadow where ghosts could hide.

Think back to your own childhood fears. Chances are you remember exactly how they felt, even if you couldn't have explained them at the time.

Last winter, I tried to be the “perfect grand.” I arrived with a bag of books, a reward chart, and a 20-minute plan. What could possibly go wrong? Well… everything. My grandson wriggled, I rushed the pages, and by night three, everyone dreaded “Carma’s reading time.” I could feel it—the sigh before I sat down, the way he slid off the couch, the tight smile I put on anyway. So, I scrapped the plan and asked myself, What am I actually trying to build here? Love of reading, of course.