I’ve coined myself one of the world’s most nostalgic people. I’d say I’m overwhelmed by nostalgia daily. The smallest things, personal memories or beloved television shows from my childhood, trigger a deep, longing nostalgia. While hard to accurately describe, nostalgia feels, to me, like a persistent heaviness on my chest, inflicting joy and heartache simultaneously.
After a weekend back home, nostalgia seemed like the most appropriate topic to discuss, mainly because I wanted to dissect my own thoughts. With its walls covered in high school photos, boxes of birthday cards, and shelves of awards and medals from years of competitive cheerleading, my bedroom reminds me of all the versions of me. I’m surrounded by reminders of significant people, places, and things that have made me me.
Even if I may not talk to some of the faces on my bulletin board, or have forgotten why I initially kept certain mementos in my keepsake box, I have an instinct to feel some sort of deep sentiment toward these memories. Each photo, note, relic, or scrap of paper holds immense value, no matter the context. The nostalgia that consumes me has taught me that gratitude and grief aren’t mutually exclusive.
Sometimes, this nostalgia can be devastating and weighty, causing a unique type of emotional anguish that differs from traditional anxiety, sadness, or heartbreak. I don’t cry. I don’t break down. I don’t get angry. Instead, I long. I overanalyze. I think of what used to be. I imagine what could’ve been. I determine things work out for the better. I sit with discomfort. I let myself feel the dull pain that I’ve rationalized.
What comes from this quiet aching nostalgia is a recognition of the beauty to feel. While this nostalgia can carry pain, there’s always an underlying layer that’s bittersweet. I’m lucky I can look back on my past with gratitude for all that came before the present. The heaviness occurs because these memories — the places, relationships, and tokens that scatter my bedroom walls — matter to me.