Nostalgia Only Tells Half the Story

The beauty and deception of the past

“We reminisce the past because we survived it.”

I came across this comment under a video recently while scrolling through TikTok, and it stayed with me. I had to jot it down in my commonplace notebook later that evening. I keep this notebook for moments like this, when a simple phrase or idea stops me in my tracks or lingers long in my mind after the moment has passed.

Nostalgia is something I know well. It’s a familiar companion, often quietly slipping in when I least expect it.

What’s interesting about nostalgia is how it edits the past and smooths out the rough edges. Like telling a half truth. Suddenly the past becomes more softer, warmer, more romanticized.

Things nostalgia remembers:

• The joy of a family road trip

• The thrill of a first love

• Late-night conversations with friends

• The freedom of college years

Things nostalgia forgets:

• The petty arguments during long car rides

• The teenage heartbreaks

• The anxiety and moments of self-doubt

• The boredom waiting for something to happen

And I fall for it every time. I let nostalgia convince me that those were the days, the best of times, even when those days were just… days. It tells me I was happier then, more carefree, more present, more creative, more me. It suggests I have lost something, even if I can’t quite name what exactly. And when that happens, it’s easy to get lost in looking back, trying to reclaim something from the past, rather than paying attention to what’s unfolding in the present.

But here’s the real trick nostalgia plays. It doesn’t just reimagine the past; it also makes me question the present. It makes me wonder if the best parts of life have already happened, if nothing will ever feel quite as magical as it once did. It makes me wonder whether I’ll have the same kind of friendships ever again, laugh as deep, or feel as free as I remember so vividly.

Thinking back to that comment I read earlier, I see more truth in it now. Maybe nostalgia isn’t just about yearning for the past or what we’ve “lost,” but also a way of acknowledging what we’ve experienced. That we lived it, felt it, endured it. That it wasn’t always golden, but it was real.

Nostalgia forgets that I was uncertain then, too. That I worried just as much. That I spent so many of those “golden” days longing for something—for the next big moment to happen, for proof that I was on the right path. Nostalgia paints the past as if I was always present, always carefree, always soaking it all in. But I wasn’t. I was just living. The same way I am now.

That’s why we return to it. Not because it was better, but because it is known. There is a safety in the past that the present does not always offer. We know how those stories end.

In a few years, nostalgia will try to rewrite this season of my life, too. It will tell me that this was the golden time, that this version of me had it all figured out, that I should have appreciated it more. And maybe I’ll believe it. Or maybe I won’t.

But right now, I am choosing to believe that today, too, is worth remembering. That one day, I’ll look back on this moment with the same softened edges and the same glowing filter. That the life I have now is already enough.

Because nostalgia only tells half the story. The rest is happening right now.

In the spirit of nostalgia, I’ve been exploring ways to bring back the joy and simplicity I often find myself longing for in the present:

• Strolling through parks. The park behind my childhood home holds so many memories—playing tag until dark, sliding down the bright red slide, swinging as high as I could trying to touch the trees above. It’s still frigid here, but I’ve been making it a point to visit parks more often.

• Lingering at the library. As a kid, I would spend hours wandering the aisles at my local library. Lately, I usually just walk in to pick up my holds and leave, but last weekend I decided to linger with no agenda. I spent some time revisiting books I read as a child, browsing cookbooks, and cozying up by the fireplace. I’m always amazed at the hidden treasures that can be found at the library.

  Florencia Ornelas
  has also written a beautiful piece sharing some free resources you can access with a library card that’s worth checking out.

• Trivia night. My brother and I were obsessed with Brain Quest as kids, quizzing each other until we had every answer memorized. I recently spotted a set at Barnes & Noble and was surprised to see they’re still around. Inspired by that, my partner and I had a virtual trivia date night. It reminded me of the joy in a little friendly competition.

• Collecting small treasures. I loved collecting stickers and knickknacks from places I visited as a kid. I’ve been leaning into that again, but with more intention. A pressed flower from a gifted bouquet, postcards, a matchbook from a favorite restaurant—small, ordinary things that serve as little reminders of moments I want to remember.

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Media consumed recently that I felt moved to share

• Priya Parker: When gathering becomes a lifeline [newsletter]

• Why Does Posting On Instagram Evoke Existential Dread [essay]

• James Baldwin in Istanbul [document]

• On Being: Mary Oliver—Listening to the World [YouTube]

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