There are movies that entertain, others that move, and a few that, without saying a word, teach you the essentials. Wall-E is one of those. A small, rusty, lonely, curious robot… with more humanity than many humans. On an empty planet, covered in trash, where civilization decided to leave because it was easier to escape than to repair, Wall-E continues doing his job. Day after day, silently, he picks up, arranges, cleans. And all the while, he collects things. Things others threw away. Things no one valued. Like someone who unknowingly keeps pieces of hope.

When children watch Wall-E, they’re not just seeing an adorable robot who falls in love with a modern space probe. They’re seeing the power of perseverance, of tenderness, of curiosity. They see what happens when someone, instead of giving up, decides to care. And to care without anyone seeing it, without anyone rewarding them, without applause or followers. Just because. Because it’s the right thing to do.

From a child psychology perspective, Wall-E touches deep emotional development. Wall-E lives in a desolate and silent environment, yet maintains a profound inner world. This reflects, in many children, the capacity to form emotional bonds even in cold or disconnected environments. Wall-E represents emotional resilience, the ability to sustain hope and connection even in isolation.

Furthermore, this little robot is fascinated by insignificant objects: a fork, a lightbulb, a Rubik’s cube. This is no coincidence. In childhood, symbolic play is one of the most important forms of emotional expression. When children «adopt» stones, draw faces on fruit, or construct stories with bottle caps, they are doing what Wall-E does: bringing the inanimate to life to fill their world with meaning.

When Eve appears, Wall-E transforms. Something similar is triggered to what happens in childhood when a child experiences a secure emotional bond: they seek contact, desire to nurture, experience separation anxiety, and expose themselves emotionally. They appear vulnerable, confused, and emotional. There are no words, but there are gestures that speak volumes. The film, without discussing attachment theory, illustrates this with brutal clarity.

Meanwhile, humans float in spaceships, completely disconnected from their bodies, their environment, and each other. Children and adults alike can identify a clear critique here: the excess of stimulation, the replacement of physical movement with digital movement, the loss of authentic human bonds. Wall-E, without being human, walks, touches, feels, dances, listens. And in doing so, he reminds everyone—the characters and the viewers—of what it feels like to be alive.

Wall-E also speaks of ecology, yes. But above all, it speaks of emotional memory. Of the importance of preserving what is small. It teaches children that not everything that is old should be discarded. That what is broken can have value. That caring for the world begins with caring for what’s right in front of you: a plant, a toy, a memory, a friendship.

Cookie of the Day:
Sometimes the most heroic acts don’t make a sound. They’re more like picking up what others threw away, planting something where nothing else grows, staying when everyone else has left. If you have a quiet, thoughtful child who is fascinated by strange objects, who cares for what others ignore… maybe you have a little Wall-E at home. Teach them that this is love too. That caring for the invisible is a superpower. And that, with luck, one day that simple gesture—a plant, a glance, a shy «hello»—can save everything.

“Anyone can cook.” That’s how Ratatouille begins and ends, but it’s not really a movie about food. It’s a movie about possibility. About breaking molds. About what happens when you let your desire be stronger than your destiny. And yes: it’s also a movie about rats. But, above all, about dreams that make their way, even through the cracks of a system that tells you no.

Remy is a mouse, an outcast even within his own colony because he has a more refined palate and a different view of the world. From a developmental psychology perspective, we could understand Remy as a subject in search of individuation, that process described by Carl Jung in which the self differentiates itself from the collective to assert itself as an autonomous and creative identity.

Remy doesn’t want to eat junk. He wants to create. He wants to feel. It’s not enough to survive. He wants to live, and living involves choosing. This puts him in constant tension with his environment, which represents security, tradition, the «that’s the way things are.» Instead, Remy chooses the path of art. Because yes: cooking, here, is art. It’s sensitivity. It’s expression.

Ratatouille also represents the figure of the «ideal self» (Rogers), that internal model that guides our actions toward what we would like to be. For Remy, that ideal is Gusteau, the dead chef turned into an inner conscience. A voice that accompanies him, that reminds him that it’s possible. To dream. To never give up. That even as a rat, he can aspire to excellence.

The bond with Linguini, that clumsy human who can’t even fry an egg, functions as a metaphor for the synergy between the instinctive and the structured, between passion and form. Together they cook not because they are perfect, but because they learn to trust. From a Vygotskian perspective, we could say that Linguini is the cultural mediator that allows Remy to transition from internal thought to social language. And vice versa.

The kitchen, rigid, hierarchical, and hostile, represents the adult world: that space where creativity is often repressed by the fear of error. But Remy breaks through with flavor. His final ratatouille—that humble, peasant, unpretentious dish—is the masterstroke: because it moves, because it connects, because it says «this is me.»

And here appears one of the most beautiful moments from the perspective of emotional psychology: the scene in which Anton Ego, the feared critic, tastes the dish and is emotionally transported back to his childhood. That sudden connection with an early memory, evoked by flavor, is a clear example of the phenomenon of episodic memory and the power of the senses as an activator of affective memories. A stimulus that, as Proust would say, restores lost time. Ego, who represents cold reason, eventually surrenders to emotional authenticity.

And of course, Ratatouille also has its «cookie crisis.» Or rather: its «hat crisis.» When it’s revealed that the cook is a rat, everything collapses. The system doesn’t accept anything different. Talent, if it comes from an unexpected place, is discarded. But the film insists: value doesn’t depend on packaging. It depends on dedication, intention, passion.

And so, Ratatouille becomes a vital lesson for children and adults alike. It tells us: it doesn’t matter where you come from. What matters is what you have inside. What matters is what you do with it. Because anyone can cook. Anyone can create. But only those who dare to be true to themselves… manage to move.

There are films you see with your eyes, but they live on in your heart. Soul is one of those. It speaks to us about the meaning of life, the fear of not fulfilling a «mission,» the vertigo that comes with thinking we came into the world for something… and that we haven’t even done it yet. What if it turns out life wasn’t a destination, but a journey?

Joe Gardner, the protagonist, is a frustrated jazz musician who, like so many adults (and many teenagers too), has internalized the idea that his life only has value if he manages to fulfill his «purpose.» In other words, he believes his identity is defined by his vocation. This is a widespread notion in our culture and one that psychology—from Viktor Frankl to Erikson—has problematized: what happens when our identity is tied to a single function? What if we don’t fulfill it? What if we do… but don’t feel anything?

Joe lives in the stage that Erikson called generativity versus stagnation, typical of middle adulthood: an internal struggle between leaving a mark on the world or feeling like one is just surviving. Joe wants to transcend, but in that quest, he forgets how to live. The film literally confronts him with death to force him to see his life from the outside.

And here appears the soul 22. A being who doesn’t want to be born, who sees no meaning in human existence. And, although it may seem strange, it represents many children and adolescents who don’t fit in, who aren’t «passionate about anything,» who fear living because they feel they have no «spark.» But the film takes a brilliant turn: that spark isn’t a purpose, but a willingness to live. You don’t have to be born knowing why you came. You just have to want to try.

Based on Lev Vygotsky’s theory, we could say that 22 needs emotional scaffolding to encourage him to live. Joe, unknowingly, provides that support: it allows him to explore, feel, and test the world with curiosity. At first, 22 refuses to come down to Earth because she believes she doesn’t have what it takes. But, in reality, the problem isn’t her: it’s the system that has made her believe she has to shine from day one.

One of the most beautiful moments is when Joe, after achieving «her big dream» (playing with Dorothea Williams), realizes that she doesn’t feel any different. That the moment she’d been looking forward to didn’t change her soul. It was just… a moment. And that’s where Soul gives us its strongest lesson: it’s not about one great achievement, but about the sum of small experiences. It’s not the night of the concert, it’s the ray of sunshine on her face, the falling leaf, the taste of a pizza, the shared laughter.

The film also touches, albeit subtly, on imposter syndrome, the fear of failure, and anxiety about the future: very common phenomena in young people today. Joe fears not being good enough. 22 fears being «too much of nothing.» And in the midst of this, they both discover that the important thing isn’t being exceptional, but being present.

Soul is, at its core, a film about the here and now. It reminds us that living isn’t about achieving, but about feeling. That meaning isn’t found in a distant goal, but in the full awareness of the moment. As Jon Kabat-Zinn would say, using mindfulness as a way of thinking: «While you’re alive, there are more things right with you than wrong with you.»

There are movies that make us laugh, cry, and then cry again… but with an aquatic style. Finding Nemo isn’t just the story of a small fish with a shorter fin, nor of an overprotective dad swimming halfway across the ocean. It’s actually a great metaphor about fear, autonomy, resilience, and the eternal dilemma of letting go… all wrapped in bubbles, anemones, and surfing turtles.

When we look at this story through the eyes of child psychology, it becomes an emotional guide for parents, mothers, and caregivers who, like Marlin, have the (natural) impulse to protect at all costs. Who hasn’t felt that paralyzing fear when a child strays a little further than we’d like? But that’s where the magic (and the need) of allowing children to live, make mistakes, explore, get a little lost… and find their way comes in.

From Vygotskian perspective, we can understand that Nemo faces a zone of proximal development. He wants to prove himself, and although he still needs adult figures to guide him, he also needs real challenges that take him out of his emotional fishbowl. In this case, his greatest learning experience isn’t in the reef’s classrooms, but in the vast sea filled with jellyfish, vegetarian sharks, and sociable pelicans. Because, as sociocultural theory suggests, development occurs through interaction and context. And Nemo certainly had a stimulating one.

On the other hand, Marlin, the father, is on his own emotional journey. In psychology, we talk about «parental anxiety,» that constant fear that something will happen to our children. We understand it, we validate it… but we also challenge it. Because parenting isn’t about locking yourself in a bubble, but preparing to swim in the open sea. Marlin has to learn to trust not only Nemo, but also the world and its ability to face the unexpected.

And Dory? Dory is the friend we all need, even if she forgets what she just said. It represents the importance of social support, almost naive optimism, and the mantra of «just keep swimming.» It also shows us another side: neurodivergence. Although her short-term memory is limited, Dory provides solutions, companionship, creativity, and a unique perspective on problems. She doesn’t need to «fix» herself to fit in; rather, her environment learns to relate to her through affection and empathy. Point for inclusion.

This film also speaks to grief: Marlin has lost his partner and almost all of his children. His overprotectiveness comes from a place of pain. And Nemo, although he doesn’t fully understand it, experiences it in that lack of freedom. It’s a reminder that children perceive unspoken pain, unhealed wounds, and that these emotions often creep into parenting without us realizing it. Talking about what hurts, and healing, is also parenting.

In the end, Finding Nemo offers us a simple, yet complex, lesson: loving isn’t controlling, but trusting. And nurturing isn’t about preventing them from living, but about accompanying them as they learn to swim on their own. It’s literally about gradually releasing their fins.

So if your child wants to explore, make mistakes, or have their own adventure in the sea at school, at the park, or in their own imagination, remember: «Keep swimming.» With them, with her, with you.

Since we were little, we’ve been taught that education is the way. That studying is the direct path to success. That if you follow the rules, do your homework, memorize well, and get good grades, then you’ll succeed.
But… what happens when you follow that path and it doesn’t work? What happens when, despite all the effort, you still don’t understand anything? What happens when you feel clumsy, slow, or just completely disconnected from everything they’re trying to “teach” you?

Today I want to talk about that. About education as we know it. About a system that, in many cases, doesn’t really educate… but rather sorts, filters, and labels you based on how well you fit into a linear, homogeneous logic that ignores the most basic truth: that we are all different.

Because yes, I lived through that traditional education. The kind where if you pass a test, you’re a genius. But if you don’t, something must be wrong with you. They make you repeat a grade, send you to tutoring, scare you into compliance. It’s as if school is more focused on making you memorize the script than helping you understand the role you actually want to play in this life.

And the problem isn’t just that the system doesn’t work for everyone… the real problem is that they’ve made us believe that if it doesn’t work for you, then the problem is you.

I’ve lived it. And I’ve also seen the other side. I’ve come across alternative educational models focused on multiple intelligences, critical thinking, soft skills, art, emotion, and asking better questions instead of rushing for answers. Places where children and teenagers are treated as whole people, with brains, hearts, and souls. Where mistakes aren’t punished—they’re celebrated as part of the process. Where not everyone is forced to learn the same thing the same way, because it’s understood that not everyone comes with the same brain map.

But of course, those alternative models aren’t for everyone… not because they don’t work, but because they’re not accessible to everyone. Because public education is still guided by tradition, by the idea that “if it worked for me, then it’s fine.” By that nostalgic vision of education that romanticizes the desk, the uniform, the enforced silence. A nostalgia that doesn’t question, doesn’t evolve, and ignores the real needs of today’s kids and teens.

And here comes the most uncomfortable truth: not everyone learns the same way. And that’s okay.

Some people shine with numbers. Others with words. Some with their hands. Others through music. Some learn by watching, others need to move. Some understand everything through an example, others through a story, others through an image. And some—many—don’t discover their talent until they’re in their twenties, thirties, or even fifties. And you know what? That’s okay too.

Why don’t they tell us that more often? Why don’t they teach us that not being good at everything isn’t a failure—it’s part of being human?

If you didn’t do well in physics, you’re not less intelligent. If you hated art class, you’re not broken. If you despised music or never got algebra, you’re not damaged. You’re just wired differently. And that “different” might be exactly what the world needs.

But as long as we keep evaluating everyone with the same test, we’ll keep rewarding memorization over creativity, silence over curiosity, obedience over critical thinking.

And that’s not education. That’s domestication.

We need an education that recognizes cognitive, emotional, and cultural diversity. One that dares to break the idea that there’s only one “right” way to learn. One that allows students not just to learn content, but to discover who they are. That values mistakes, embraces doubt, and encourages dialogue. That teaches people to think, not just to repeat.

An education that understands that some kids will be happy solving equations, and others will change the world with a camera or a wild idea. And all of them deserve the same respect, the same opportunities, and the same support.

So this episode is for those who felt dumb in school. For those who got lost in formulas, who never shone with an honor roll medal, but shine now with their own light. For those still finding themselves. And for those who already found their path far from the blackboard and the grid notebook.

It’s time to ask ourselves honestly: does education as we know it really prepare people to live? Or does it just train them to obey?

And if something feels off, maybe it’s because something is off. Not with you. Not with your kids. With the system.
And that’s why we need to talk about it.

Early adulthood — roughly between the ages of 21 and 30 — is that terrifying stage where, in theory, you’re already an adult. No more excuses: you can vote, sign contracts, adopt a cat, even get married… even if you still can’t fry an egg without burning it. It’s the moment when real life knocks at your door and — spoiler alert — it doesn’t bring cookies, it brings utility bills.

At this stage, it’s not just about independence anymore — it’s about autonomy. It’s not just about “moving out of your parents’ house,” but about holding it together (without crying too much) when the gas bill arrives. Early adulthood is like that video game tutorial that only gives you the basics and then — bam! — throws you into the hardest level with no warning.

From Piaget’s perspective, we’re still in the formal operational stage, where abstract and logical thinking is already in place. But let’s be honest: having the capacity to plan for the long term is not the same as actually using it. You may fully understand the consequences of your actions… and still choose to go on a road trip with your hippie cousin instead of saving for rent. Because freedom at this stage is shiny, exciting, and feels endless. But it also comes with real challenges: making big decisions, committing to real responsibilities, and learning that adulthood isn’t a straight path — it’s more like a roller coaster without seatbelts.

Graduating college is one of those moments you wait for eagerly… until it happens. Sure, you want to be done with classes, escape group projects where you did all the work, and party in a cap and gown with champagne. But once the celebration ends, the vertigo begins: “Now what?” Suddenly, the job market is real, with all its awkward interviews, its “we’ll call you” that never happens, and that desperate need to seem competent when you have no idea what being a professional adult even means. Your résumé starts off as a blank page you try to fill with fancy words about your years as a barista, volunteer, or teaching assistant. Can you say you know Excel? Sure. To what level? “I can open it and not cry.”

Job hunting becomes a job in itself. Each application is an emotional roller coaster: from the hope of finding your dream position to the void of no response. Interviews become a ritual where you try to sound confident but not cocky, show experience you haven’t lived, and express passion without seeming desperate. Some days you feel like you’re about to make it, and others you seriously consider opening a plant shop or moving to the countryside to raise chickens.

Then come relationships, which are no longer just about movie dates. Things get real: talking about the future, living together, discussing major compatibility issues — like whether they do the dishes right after eating or if they sleep with white noise. Introducing your partner to your family becomes a whole event. You wonder if your mom will be too intense, if your dad will tell weird jokes, if your partner will run screaming. Meeting your in-laws, on the other hand, feels like a mix between a job interview and improvised theater: trying to impress, without seeming like you’re trying too hard. And if things go well, come the big conversations: moving in, getting married, getting a dog. Or a baby. Or a shared washing machine — which, for many, is an even bigger commitment than marriage.

Meanwhile, your body starts to send subtle (and not-so-subtle) messages. The first gray hair, which you sometimes hide and sometimes flaunt like a badge of honor. A sore back from sleeping wrong. Genuine excitement over buying high-quality sheets. You start to realize health is no joke: you need to sleep, eat something green, and accept your metabolism is not as generous as it once was. You actually get excited about finding a good dentist or getting normal blood test results. Without noticing, you become the person who recommends probiotics and compares vacuum cleaner prices.

Vygotsky, always so socially focused, still makes perfect sense: learning doesn’t stop, and your environment keeps shaping your thinking. Only now, you’re not surrounded by classmates and teachers, but by coworkers, bosses, roommates who eat your food, partners who come and go, and friends you don’t see every day but who still shine like lighthouses in your chaos. Your “zone of proximal development” now might include your therapist, an inspiring mentor, that wise friend who always has tea and good advice, or even the corner store guy who reminds you to buy toilet paper.

Early adulthood is also when you begin to build a more solid identity. It’s not all trial and error anymore… though there’s still plenty of that. It’s a time to try jobs, cities, relationships, lifestyles. Some paths will feel like home; others will teach you they’re not yours — and both are valuable. You start to build your chosen support network: people who are there because you choose them, not because you sat next to them in high school. And you slowly accept that you don’t need to have everything figured out to move forward.

Your relationship with your parents evolves too. They’re no longer all-knowing figures, but humans with their own crises, doubts, and learning curves. Sometimes you support them, and sometimes they still hold you up. That bond is redefined — with more distance, yes, but also with more honesty. And suddenly, you cherish what once felt basic: a phone call, a shared recipe, a hug that still tastes like childhood.

And yes, let’s get back to the cookie. At this age, the cookie crisis takes on new forms. It’s not about it being broken anymore, or questioning its symbolic meaning. Now the drama is more sophisticated: Did I buy these gluten-free organic cookies out of conviction or peer pressure? Is it worth paying double for the “artisanal” brand, or should I just surrender to the store brand? Why don’t I know how to cook but have a whole collection of gourmet cookies? And why, if I just bought cookies yesterday… are they gone already? (Spoiler: because you ate them all during an existential binge-watching session.)

Early adulthood, in short, is a stage full of contradictions, experimentation, and constant discovery. It’s when you realize there’s no single way to be an adult — and that making mistakes isn’t just normal, it’s necessary. That success doesn’t always come in premium packaging, that social media comparisons are rarely the full story, and that sometimes growing up is simply… keeping going. Cookie in hand.

Because yes — cookies still break, still run out, and sometimes even burn. But now, you’ve learned to buy them, share them, and even bake them if you have to. And that, believe it or not, is already a huge step.

And just when you thought you had mastered the art of fixing a broken cookie without triggering the apocalypse… adolescence arrives. That mystical, chaotic, and deeply transformative stage in which your child—who once believed you were an all-knowing being with answers to everything—now suspects you don’t even know what you’re doing with your life. And the worst part? They might be right.

Adolescence isn’t just another stage; it’s almost a full system reboot. It starts around age 11 or 12 and extends to 18 or even beyond (because, as we know, maturity doesn’t come with a legal ID). Unlike earlier stages, this one isn’t just about learning how to walk, share, or not cry over a broken cookie. Now it’s about deeper stuff: Who am I? What do I want to do with my life? Why do my parents breathe so loudly? You know—daily existential questions.

As we saw in the previous episode, from Piaget’s perspective, this is the stage of formal operations—the fourth and final stage of his cognitive development theory. Here, adolescents don’t just think in concrete terms anymore; they develop the ability to think abstractly, logically, and systematically. That means they can form hypotheses, imagine possible futures, question norms… and argue with you for thirty minutes about why they should be allowed to watch videos until 3 a.m. with lines like, “But I manage my sleep well, Mom.”

This abstract thinking is a gift to science, art, and philosophy… but it also gives rise to conversations like: “Nothing matters, everything is an illusion, why study if we’re all going to die anyway?” Bravo—Nietzsche would be proud. But you just wanted them to finish their math homework.

Meanwhile, our dear Vygotsky continues to insist that learning doesn’t happen in a vacuum, but through interaction with others. And now a new character enters the scene: the peer group. In childhood, the adult was the central figure. Now, the adolescent turns toward their social group. Friends are no longer just playmates—they become mirrors and references. What they say, do, or think matters a lot. So much, in fact, that your teen might change the way they dress, speak, or even their music taste just to fit in. Yes, even if that means listening for hours to songs that sound, to you, like they were created for an alien summoning ritual.

Vygotsky would say this isn’t betrayal—it’s a natural part of development. Adolescents need to test themselves in new environments, to contrast what they learned at home with what they see in the world. It’s part of building their identity, a concept that Erik Erikson—another classic in psychology—called the “search for self.” For Erikson, this stage is marked by the conflict between “identity vs. role confusion.” Basically, they’re in full: “Who am I and what am I supposed to do with everything I feel, think, and want?” mode.

And of course, in the midst of this internal revolution, the relationship with parents changes too. They no longer want to be looked at the same way, or be called “my little one” in front of friends, but if they feel insecure, they seek your company like when they were five. Adolescence is a stage where they crave more freedom—but also more containment (though they’ll never admit it). They want to be heard, not lectured. And most of all, they want to feel like their voice matters, even as they’re still learning how to use it wisely.

Academically, this stage brings new challenges. Adolescents no longer learn through imitation or repetition, but because something makes sense to them—because it connects with their world or sparks emotion. (Hello, passionate teachers—you work magic here!). The problem is that the education system often doesn’t match the emotional rhythm of this stage. It’s not uncommon to see brilliant students become disengaged—not due to lack of ability, but due to lack of connection.

That’s why supporting an adolescent is a delicate balancing act. It’s not about imposing, but about accompanying; not about controlling, but about guiding. And yes, sometimes that support happens through awkward silences, eye rolls, and locked doors. But there are also beautiful moments—deep conversations in the middle of the night, unexpected hugs you didn’t see coming.

And if you’re wondering about the cookie, don’t worry—it’s still part of the story. It’s just no longer literal. Now, the broken cookie is the message left on read, the Instagram story where they weren’t tagged, the misunderstanding with their best friend, or the “you left me on seen” that turns into a full-blown Greek tragedy. They no longer cry because the cookie broke, but because the world breaks their heart in small doses, and they don’t yet know how to put the pieces back together.

That’s where you come in—with your unconditional love, infinite patience, and your gift for being present without overwhelming, for holding space without suffocating. Because even if they don’t say it, they still need you to remind them that everything’s going to be okay. Even when their emotional cookie is shattered into crumbs.

There are films that begin with a story. Up begins with an entire life. In less than five minutes, Pixar tells us a love story that is also a story about time, desire, small losses, and the final blow. Carl and Ellie’s story is so profound that it needs no dialogue: only silences, gestures, shared routines. And, of course, the house: that space that, in environmental psychology, can be understood as the physical extension of the self. In Up, that house becomes literal: it is the past that Carl refuses to let go of. His memory. His floating grief.

Carl represents old age from an emotionally dense perspective. He is not just an older man; he is someone clinging to nostalgia, to «what could have been.» Grief, as Elisabeth Kübler-Ross proposes, has five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Carl, at the beginning of the film, is caught between denial and anger. He’s turned his house into a time capsule, and any attempt at change (the construction of buildings, workers knocking on his door, the passing of the world) is a direct threat to his emotional stability.

But then Russell arrives.

From the perspective of child developmental psychology, Russell is a child who needs to belong. His insistence on earning a badge isn’t just a concrete goal: it’s his way of seeking validation, affection, and connection. We know he doesn’t have a father figure present, and that behind his insistence on helping the elderly lies a deep need for guidance, a look, and a hug.

Vygotsky argued that learning occurs in the zone of proximal development, that is, in that intermediate space between what a child can do alone and what they can do with help. Interestingly, Up reverses this concept: it’s the child who helps the adult overcome their limits. It’s Russell who pushes Carl toward transformation. Because Carl isn’t just old. He’s stuck.

The balloon ride—that powerful visual metaphor—is also an internal journey. It’s a metaphor for the need to let go of the weight, to literally release objects in order to keep moving forward. The house flies, yes. But it gets lower and lower. Every memory, every object, every chair prevents Carl from moving forward. Until he finally understands: he doesn’t need to take everything with him to preserve what’s important. Memory isn’t in things. It’s in the connection.

And that album, «My Adventure Book,» is the most powerful psychological twist in the entire film. Carl believed he had failed Ellie, that they hadn’t fulfilled their dream of going to Paradise Falls. But Ellie had already written her ending. The important thing wasn’t the destination. It was the shared life. The daily adventures. The little things. From an existentialist perspective, this is a stroke of lucidity: it’s not about what we dream of doing, but how we live in the meantime.

Up is also a study of intergenerational bonds. Carl and Russell need each other. One represents experience, structure, the past. The other, spontaneity, emotion, openness to the present. Together they find a middle ground. One lets go. The other feels seen.

And of course, Up also has its «cookie crisis.» But here, it’s a crisis shaped like a mailbox. When Carl hits a worker for touching the mailbox he shared with Ellie, we understand that this isn’t a simple reaction: it’s a desperate cry to not lose what little remains of their love story. It’s when the past hurts so much that it turns into violence.

But the film teaches us that true love isn’t lost when we move forward. On the contrary. Only when we move forward can that love be transformed into a legacy, a bond, a new story.

Thus, Up isn’t a movie about flying. It’s a movie about learning to let go of what we no longer need, so that what truly matters can… lift us up.