Today, more than 100 members (from 30 different countries) of AOIBA (Association of International Bubble Artists) gathered and released millions of bubbles into the air.
They floated everywhere —drifting over crowds, bouncing off hands, gliding just out of reach before disappearing.
I watched the kids first.
Their faces lit up immediately. Pure instinct. Run, chase, jump, pop. Some used their hands, others tried their feet. A few got creative —noses, faces, whole-body dives into the floating clusters.
And the laughter.
But it wasn’t just the little ones.
The older kids joined in too, suddenly forgetting they were supposed to be “too cool” for this. Running, chasing, inventing new ways to pop bubbles like it was an Olympic sport.
Even the parents couldn’t fully resist. Some joined the fun. Some stood back smiling. And yes, a few were dedicated poppers themselves.
Of course, bubbles also create their own little dramas.
At one point, a mother was trying to get her son to leave. He was completely absorbed in the sky full of bubbles, chasing them like they were treasures. She called his name many times over the last 20 minutes, I figured I should help.
So I did what any bubble blower might do.
I pretended the bubbles were finished.
“No more bubbles”, I said with a shrug.
The boy looked up, shocked, processing the injustice of it all and then promptly burst into tears anyway.
So much for my clever plan.
Another moment reminded me how powerful the chaos of bubbles can be. One father was sternly scolding his son for running without looking. From a safety standpoint, he wasn’t wrong —kids chasing bubbles don’t exactly practice situational awareness.
But watching it unfold, I thought maybe the moment called for a different approach.
Bubbles don’t create careful walking. They create joy. Movement. Spontaneous bursts of childhood energy. Sometimes the better response is to guide the excitement rather than shut it down.
And then there was the bystander. He stood there watching the scene hundreds of people running, jumping, laughing, bubbles everywhere and finally came over to me. “What’s going on here?” he asked. I explained that it was a bubble event. Hundreds of bubble artists filling the sky for kids and families. He paused. Looked around again at the chaos of floating spheres and joyful mayhem. Then he asked, completely seriously: “So are you all on acid?”
I had to laugh.
Because from the outside, I suppose it does look a little surreal. But the truth is much simpler. Just bubbles. And a lot of happiness floating through the air.
I said “Happy faces says it all!”
Because in that moment, the world was simple: run, laugh, pop bubbles.
No phones.
No pressure.
No overthinking.
Just wonder. Watching them, I realized something about being a parent.
When my kids were young, I thought I was giving them experiences —theme parks, science museums, vacations, adventures.
But in truth, they were giving something back to me.
They let me relive the childhood I never had. They let me see the world through eyes that didn’t have to be an adult at the age of 9.
As a parent, part of you secretly wants to freeze that time keep them innocent, keep them curious, keep them in that space where everything feels magical.
But they grow up fast.
Faster than you think when you’re holding them as babies.
Twelve years goes by in a blink, and suddenly they’re becoming their own people. Your role quietly shifts. You’re no longer the guide leading every step.
You become the advisor —when they ask.
The support —when they need it.
Today, standing there blowing bubbles into the sky for children and adults alike, I understood something about this new passion of mine.
Why it feels meaningful.
Why it feels right.
Because something I had forgotten how to do regularly —something many adults forget— is simply making people happy. As Soleil puts it “Treat people like you want to treated.”
And sometimes, all it takes is a sky full of bubbles.
“In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun.”
—Mary Poppins (1964)