The Little Engine That Couldn’t

Childhood optimism, adult trauma, and the cruel efficiency of tiny boilers.

I still remember sitting cross-legged on my childhood bedroom floor, clutching the picture book, staring at that tiny blue engine, and whispering along: “I think I can, I think I can.” I believed it. I believed that grit and optimism could move mountains.

Decades later, I realize that the lesson didn’t stop at bedtime. It followed me into every job, every side hustle, every late-night panic spiral over bills or deadlines. That cheerful little engine was a harbinger of adult life disguised as bedtime encouragement.

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The Tiny Engine Nightmare

Here’s the thing: the engine is tiny. And tiny engines carry everything. When I reread the story as an adult, I can’t stop imagining it huffing under the weight of parental expectations, social pressure, and the existential dread that comes from realizing adulthood doesn’t pause for exhaustion.

“I think I can” wasn’t encouragement—it was a contract. A contract I signed without realizing I had no lawyer. Asking for help? Forbidden. Stopping to breathe? Moral failure. And yet here we are, still repeating the mantra like some kind of cult initiation, completely uncertain.

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How Childhood Optimism Becomes Adult Torture

The little engine was practice.

• Small engine climbs hill → I scramble up deadlines, inboxes, and the endless to-do list.

• Grit becomes morality → I start measuring self-worth in completed tasks.

• Optimism becomes obligation → I whisper mantras while ignoring the boiling anxiety under my ribs.

• Burnout becomes a badge of honor → And everyone congratulates me for still “making it work.”

Meanwhile, the mountain doesn’t care. It has no idea who I am. It just looms, as smug and indifferent as that engine’s illustrator probably intended.

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Satire in the Boiler Room

I try to laugh at it—because if I don’t, I’ll cry.

• The little engine never got a union.

• It never got a coffee break.

• It never got a therapist.

And somehow, I’ve inherited the same narrative: If you don’t climb, you fail. Some days I imagine the engine rolling past my childhood bedroom and shrugging. “Yep. Same story. Still underpaid. Still overworked.”

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A Radical Reading

Here’s what I’ve learned, slowly, painfully, and with a lot of late-night journaling:

• Hills are optional.

• Mantras are optional.

• The tiny engine? Let it rest.

Some mountains exist only to impress others. Some loads were never mine to carry. And some “motivational” stories are actually psychological horror disguised as children’s literature.

I still whisper mantras sometimes, yes. But now I ask: do I want to climb this hill, or am I just performing for the invisible audience of my younger self?

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