Echoes Back

Nostalgia is one of those feelings I can’t stop coming back to. Honestly, I could probably write about it forever. It’s strange because it makes me feel two things at once—happy and sad. It sneaks up on me when I least expect it. Sometimes it’s soft and comforting, other times it stings a little, but either way, I keep leaning into it. There’s something about that mix that keeps me coming back.

What always surprises me is how nostalgia doesn’t usually come from the big life moments. It’s not the graduations, not the birthdays, not the vacations. It’s always the little things. The tiny, everyday details that didn’t feel special at the time. Like how weekends seemed to stretch on forever when I was a kid. Or how family dinners could make everything feel okay, even when nothing else was. Back then, those moments didn’t feel important. But now, looking back, they shine. Nostalgia has this way of turning the ordinary into something golden once it’s gone.

The other weekend, I noticed my memory box sitting in my office and decided to go through it—like I do every once in a while when I want to reconnect with something. Inside it’s this jumble of random things: faded photos, wristbands from events I barely remember, birthday cards with messy handwriting, and my baby blanket with the one corner I used to rub against my nose to fall asleep. The second I picked it up, I was transported back. It felt embarrassing, like I couldn’t believe how much comfort I used to get from that, but also safe. That blanket carried me through a whole part of my life, and somehow it still holds that energy. That’s the thing about nostalgia—it doesn’t just remind you of what happened, it reintroduces you to who you used to be and how it once felt.

Music always pulls me in too. One song and suddenly I’m somewhere else. I’m in the backseat of my grandparents’ car, windows down, sun pouring in. Or I’m walking home from school with my headphones tangled in my pocket, thinking the soundtrack of the world was playing just for me. Smells do the same thing. Fresh-baked brownies still put me straight into my grandma’s kitchen, where laughter and comfort lived in every corner. It’s wild how our senses work like secret doorways into the past, opening up memories I didn’t even realize were still there.

But nostalgia isn’t only soft and sweet. Sometimes it comes with a sharper edge. It reminds me of what’s gone—the friends I’ve drifted from, the people I can’t see anymore, the places that don’t feel the same no matter how many times I go back. That’s the ache of it. The reminder that time doesn’t stop, even when I wish it would. And yet, even with that ache, I think that’s what makes nostalgia beautiful. It shows me that I’ve had moments worth missing.

I do think about whether I let myself sink into it too much sometimes. Like, if I start pulling at the thread of nostalgia, it’s easy to get caught up replaying the same memories, wishing I could step back into them. But then I remind myself that those memories are proof. Proof that I’ve had good moments before, and if I’ve had them once, I’ll have them again. That’s how I try to think of it: nostalgia as a photo album I can flip through whenever I want, not a place I can live in.

What I love most, though, is the way it ties all my versions of myself together. Sometimes it makes me laugh at how awkward or dramatic I was. Other times it makes me miss the younger me who felt carefree and believed anything was possible. But even when it hurts, it makes me proud. Nostalgia lets me feel both things at once—grief for what’s gone, and gratitude for what’s still here.

At the end of the day, nostalgia reminds me that life is fleeting, but it’s also full. Full of messy, complicated, imperfect moments that end up meaning more than I realized at the time. It pushes me to pay attention now, so I don’t only figure out years later how good it was. I don’t want to only see the gold once it’s already behind me. Nostalgia makes me want to hold on tighter to what’s in front of me while I still have it.

Because that’s the thing—you can’t move back into the past, but you can carry it with you. The songs, the smells, the laughter, the little daily things that once felt so normal but ended up mattering the most. Nostalgia isn’t about getting stuck. It’s about remembering that life is worth missing, even as you keep moving forward.

And maybe that’s the most comforting part of all. Nostalgia reminds me how lucky I am to live a life I’ll always miss.

Love always, M

Also, hey grandpa! Finally posted again for you since I know you've been waiting. :)