Holding onto yesterday while learning to embrace tomorrow
Especially around this time, when Christmas is only a month away, it’s easy to miss the days of childhood. That said, the classroom parties with cupcakes and candy canes, the thrill of pulling a name for secret Santa, and the way Christmas movies made us forget about spelling tests and math homework.
There’s a strange power in nostalgia. One moment you’re sipping coffee, and the next — a song, a smell, or even a forgotten memory throws you backward in time. Nostalgia is comforting, it reminds us of who we were, the people we loved and the things that shaped us. But, the side is harder to swallow; it’s the reminder that those moments are gone, that we can’t ever step back into them.
All we can do is remember. The times when we used to play and not care. The times when things didn’t feel heavy, when the world seemed to fit inside a snow globe we didn’t yet know could break. Sometimes nostalgia makes us more resilient because it ties us to a narrative of continuity — proof that we have lived, felt and belonged. It’s why old photographs or home videos can bring tears without warning.
The other day, I was looking at pictures of my grandpa — him carrying me when I was little, buying me whatever I wanted and us laughing while he saved me from my mom’s tantrums. I miss him in ways that I can’t put into words — only my eyes can. I wish I could show him the life I have now, but all I have are those pictures. They feel like memories with pieces missing — I can see us, I can feel the joy, but also loopholes where memory has faded away. When he passed away, I was too young to understand what death really meant. I told myself he was just somewhere far, still alive, but choosing not to see me, because it hurt too much to think otherwise. Now, looking at those photos, it’s a reminder that I can’t hug him again. That he can’t pick me up and give me a princess twirl.
The more you lean into nostalgia, the sharper the knife feels. There’s a sadness in knowing you might never be the version of yourself who lived that moment for the first time. You can listen to your favourite childhood song a hundred times, but nothing will replicate the goosebumps of hearing it at twelve, when everything felt larger than life. Nostalgia teaches us that time only moves one way, and part of its ache comes from realizing how much has slipped through our fingers.
But maybe that’s the point: nostalgia is both a celebration and a mourning. It celebrates the fact that we had experiences worth missing. It mourns that those experiences live only in memory. That duality is why nostalgia has always been a central aspect of storytelling. It drives the popularity of blockbuster films, the revival of old video games, and the way we recycle music and fashion.
Nostalgia has the power to convince us that the best days are already behind us –– even though they’re not. Life is too short, with so many unexperienced twists and turns still waiting to unfold. That’s the beauty: new memories are waiting to be made. The same way childhood gave us moments we still hold onto, adulthood will too.
To feel nostalgia is to recognize that life has given us something meaningful enough to miss. Yes, it can sting, but the sting is evidence of belonging, love, joy, and growth.
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