By deliberately collecting toys now, I am sending a clear message back through time to that little kid: Your joy matters. Your imagination is important. You are allowed to have things just because they make you happy.

By Arvin A. Esguerra

As a kid, my connection to toy characters was profound, but my access to them was limited. I’d have a single, well-loved action figure, its paint chipped from countless adventures. The idea of owning a 1,000-peso collectible was as fantastical as the worlds they came from. My inner child learned to admire from a distance, to want quietly, and to believe that such detailed, beautiful objects weren’t for me.

Now, my house has a new centerpiece. It’s not the sleek sofa or the modern art print. It’s a Detolf cabinet, meticulously lit, featuring a 1/6th scale Hot Toys Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) figure. For some, it might seem like an expensive hobby. But I know the truth: this is my therapy room. This is where I am healing my inner child, one hyper-realistic sculpt and dynamic anime figure at a time.

My collection isn’t a display of wealth; it’s a gallery of granted wishes. Each figure is a promise I finally have the power to keep. They are tangible proof that the kid who dreamed of these worlds was right to do so, and that the adult he became is finally listening. It’s a testament to the joy of fulfilling childhood dreams—a reminder that it’s never too late to make those dreams a reality.

What began as a small indulgence evolved into something deeper. Unboxing each new figure feels like unlocking a memory—the smell of a new comic book, the sound of afternoon cartoons, the comfort of simpler days. Each collectible, in its quiet way, repairs something unseen.

People often assume adults collect toys out of immaturity or obsession. But collecting isn’t about escaping adulthood; it’s about integrating it. These miniature heroes—frozen mid-leap or mid-battle—remind me that imagination isn’t something to outgrow. It’s a lifeline that connects who I was with who I’ve become.

Sometimes, when I look at my display cabinet at night, the soft glow of LED lights casting heroic shadows across the room, I think of that boy who used to browse toy shelves and walk away empty-handed. I think of how proud he’d be now—not because of what I own, but because I never stopped dreaming.

Each piece I collect is part of a quiet conversation between my past and present selves. It says, “You made it. You’re safe now. You can play again.”

In a world that tells us to “move on” and “grow up,” this collection is my gentle rebellion. I’m not trying to recapture childhood—I’m learning from it. My inner child isn’t stuck in the past; he’s thriving in the present, finally given space to exist.

This isn’t about nostalgia for its own sake. It’s about wholeness. Every meticulously sculpted figure represents self-acceptance, the merging of past innocence with adult awareness. It’s a kind of healing that doesn’t require words—only presence, patience, and play.

So yes, my collection may be unconventional therapy, but it’s working. Because every time I dust a shelf or pose a new figure, I feel lighter, steadier, and more at peace.

“This isn’t a hobby; it’s a homecoming. Every hyper-detailed figure on my shelf is a promise I finally kept to the kid who could only dream of holding them.”