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.

Late adolescence, that glorious stage that begins roughly between ages 17 and 21 (though it sometimes seems to extend into the 30s, depending on the case), is a time of major changes, life-altering decisions, existential questions, and, of course, an abundance of identity crises. It’s the phase when children begin to experience a sort of independence with a curfew—when they can technically move out, but still come home to do laundry and ask for groceries. They no longer contradict you just for sport; now they study degrees with names you didn’t even know existed, like “Computational neuroscience with a focus on artificial intelligence applied to contemporary dance.”

At this stage, adolescents are not only exploring who they are, but also who they want to be in the world. It’s the moment they face the dreaded and glorious leap to college, work, or that mysterious limbo where you’re not quite sure what you’re doing with your life—but you sign up for everything anyway. Parents shift from superheroes to emotional consultants: always available, but not too involved… unless things get serious.

From Piaget’s perspective, this stage still falls under formal operations. That means adolescents are capable of thinking abstractly, logically, hypothetically, and critically. They can construct theories about the universe, debate politics, question the global economic system… and still forget to take out the trash. Cognitive development advances, yes—but household responsibility maturity remains highly selective.

Vygotsky, of course, also has a say. For him, social interaction remains the heart of learning. And now more than ever, the peer group becomes a crucial influence. Friends are not just party partners or late-night study buddies—they are mirrors for self-reflection, identity references, and sometimes moral compasses (even if those compasses occasionally spin wildly off course).

And let’s not forget the crash course in “real life”: rush-hour public transportation, overpriced lunches that don’t come with juice and soup, and the existential anxiety of having to choose a career that “defines your future” when you’re still unsure what you want for lunch. This is when you hear unforgettable conversations, like: “Mom, I’m thinking about studying philosophy, opening a café in Iceland, or maybe going into performance art. What do you think?”

This stage also brings the risks and temptations of adult life: addictions, poor decisions, impulsivity, and friendships that sometimes cause more harm than good. That’s why the parental role becomes more subtle, but no less important. It’s about being present without invading, guiding without imposing, and learning when to step in and when to let them figure it out—even if that means watching them make painful mistakes with the hope that every fall becomes a lesson.

But it’s not all chaos. This stage is also deeply beautiful. It’s when you see your child begin to shine in their own right, make brave decisions, discover real passions, and form relationships that nourish them. Conversations evolve: no longer just about homework, but about the meaning of life, social justice, love, spirituality, and dreams. Suddenly, that kid who once cried because their cookie broke can now talk with you about systems of power, climate crises, or how to heal a broken heart.

Speaking of cookies… the cookie crisis also evolves. It’s no longer about uneven halves—it’s about questioning whether the cookie represents something more. Was that really the cookie I wanted? Does the kind of cookie I choose define me? Why do I always pick cookies that break? Should I stop eating cookies and start a more mindful diet? And you, as the adult, can only offer a smile, maybe a hug, and remind them that it’s okay not to have all the answers. That sometimes, even a broken cookie still tastes good. And that in life, just like with cookies, what really matters isn’t the shape—but the flavor it leaves behind.

Because growing up isn’t about not breaking cookies anymore—it’s about learning to enjoy them, even when they’re not perfect. And walking beside them through that journey, even from a distance, remains one of the greatest acts of love.

The formal operational stage, according to Jean Piaget, begins around the age of 12 and extends into adulthood. This is when a child’s brain (now on the verge of adolescence) undergoes a kind of «software update» and suddenly starts thinking in a logical, abstract, and systematic way. It’s no longer just about understanding that two differently shaped glasses can hold the same amount of juice — it’s about pondering existential dilemmas, questioning social justice, challenging established rules… and, of course, debating you like a constitutional law expert (even if they still can’t find their socks).

In this stage, adolescents develop what Piaget called hypothetico-deductive reasoning. This means they no longer need to see something to understand it: they can imagine situations, form hypotheses, and predict outcomes. It’s when they start saying things like, “If all humans were invisible, how would we know we exist?” while you’re just trying to get them to eat dinner. It’s also the era of ambitious projects: today they want to be musicians, tomorrow astronauts, and the next day environmental activists — all while rehearsing a TikTok dance routine.

Egocentrism doesn’t entirely disappear, but it changes shape. They no longer believe the world literally revolves around them; instead, they feel like everyone is watching and judging their every move. This is known as the imaginary audience: the belief that they’re constantly under observation. That’s why they choose their outfits with the precision of a designer at Fashion Week and can spend hours deciding if their post has the right number of emojis. Enter the personal fable: the idea that their experiences are completely unique, incomparable, and that no one (especially you) could possibly understand them — even if you just asked them to turn down the music.

From Vygotsky’s perspective, the social environment remains key. Even though adolescents are now more capable of learning on their own, they still need dialogue, guidance, and interaction with adults and peers to shape their thinking. The famous Zone of Proximal Development now becomes filled with debates, reasoned arguments, and intellectual challenges. Relationships with parents, teachers, friends, and even public figures begin to shape their worldview. That’s why a seemingly casual conversation about politics or movies can turn into a passionate defense of human rights, indie cinema, or the moral superiority of cats over dogs.

Academically, this stage is when many essential skills become solid: understanding complex texts, solving multi-variable math problems, and analyzing information from different perspectives. They can now grasp metaphors, irony, and double meanings (which makes conversations either much more fun… or much more confusing if you use sarcasm too lightly).

It’s also the time when identity begins to take clearer form. They no longer just imitate those around them — they choose who they want to be like. They research, explore, and try out different versions of themselves. Today they’re vegetarian, tomorrow Buddhist, and the next day back to being a die-hard fan of a K-pop band. And in the midst of all these changes, parents remain a fundamental compass, even if it doesn’t always seem that way. Supporting them without imposing, listening without judging, and being present without invading becomes a high-level skill (and yes, it may require a lot of chocolate and deep breathing).

Speaking of high-level skills, we reach a critical point in this journey: the cookie. Because even though they can now solve quadratic equations and discuss climate change, if someone breaks a cookie in half without consulting them, it might spark a diplomatic conflict of international proportions. Not because they don’t understand it’s still the same cookie, but because now they want to decide how it’s broken, who it’s shared with, and whether that cookie represents a symbolic act of respect. At this stage, every cookie counts… especially if there’s a camera nearby and they want to make a speech about the fair distribution of household resources.

So yes, adolescence can feel like an emotional rollercoaster, but it’s also a wonderful stage where the doors to complex thought, reflection, and ideal-building begin to open. All it takes is patience, a sense of humor… and plenty of evenly divided cookies.