As a freshman in college, your whole world feels upturned. You are thrust into a new environment where, for the first time, you likely live on your own and provide for yourself, say goodbye to old friends, and open your mind to new experiences and adventures. Sure, you might see the occasional friend from home who also committed to your school, but it isn’t the same. There are times when a feeling you can’t quite pinpoint becomes overwhelming. For some reason—maybe no reason at all—you find yourself wishing you were back in the “good old days,” even though you’re referring to less than a year ago.
I catch myself walking through campus, capturing moments when I remember a feeling I used to have. The weather could be sunny with a slight breeze, and it reminds me of the park I frequented as a kid. That memory spirals into a longing to go back—and, hey, why can’t adults go on playgrounds anymore? The feeling of nostalgia courses through my veins, and while the emotion can most certainly be relished, it can also feel like a melancholic weight on my chest.
You see eighteen-year-olds missing the sports they participated in this time of year, the dances they went to, the extracurriculars that once filled their schedules. Some might even miss the bus ride to school they once hated but have since grown to love. I know I do. Twenty-year-olds talk about their freshman year of college as if it were their childhood, describing personal growth as though an entire lifetime has passed. People label periods of time as “eras” almost instantly. Microtrends come and go in the blink of an eye, and yeah, you aren’t afraid to admit you miss some of them.
High school seemed to have given you a script. It practically laid your life out in front of you—creating your schedule and surrounding you with the same people every day. There were clear goals: pass your classes, go to dances, attend senior year events, graduate. You were sure to fit in somewhere. It was easy to learn who you were and find what you liked, with clubs and groups around your small campus guiding you toward your interests. You didn’t need to play a part in deciding who you were if you didn’t want to. Your environment did that for you.
But all of a sudden, you’re thrown into something you thought you’d be prepared for. College doesn’t tell you exactly what to do; it gives you full control over your actions. Your major may give you an idea of what classes to take or what RSOs to join, but it isn’t automatic. You need to make an effort to find friends when your class size goes from the same twenty people year-round to four hundred new faces every three months. Everything felt so clear in high school, now it feels scrambled, almost unrecognizable. There’s a newfound responsibility that weighs heavily on the rest of your life.
High school gave you a label. There were bubbles a person could place themselves into that provided comfort and stability during their rapidly developing adolescence. As soon as you go to college, it’s all about choosing your major, choosing the friends you’ll have for the rest of your life, choosing the person you’ll become—an insane amount of pressure for a freshly turned adult. While the idea of choice sounds freeing, it becomes a new weight to carry on your shoulders. When your identity falls into your own hands instead of being handed to you, of course it’s easier to miss a version of yourself that didn’t require so much self-construction.
It’s hard to understand that when you’re in college, the “good old days” aren’t in the past—you’re actively living through them. As a kid, your future felt promised, time passed slower, and you moved through moments freely within your own world. Now, with new responsibilities and adulthood creeping in, it’s easy to lose sight of that freedom. The present feels complicated because we’re aware of it in a way we never were before. Maybe the “good old days” were never about a time at all. Maybe they were about the certainty you felt while you were inside them.
We’re so quick to close chapters in our lives, discussing growth as if it isn’t a forever-changing phenomenon. We turn months into “phases” instead of time, feeling nostalgic for moments that have barely passed. The problem isn’t that we’re “too nostalgic” too young—it’s that we treat the present as if it’s already over. The good old days don’t feel far away because they were better. They feel far away because we decided they were finished.