Reflections on Nostalgia: Recognizing the Importance of Our Experiences
Illustration by Delaney.
The last class that I physically attended at college was back in early March of this year. At the time, due to the novelty of the situation, I assumed that the virus wouldn’t last for long, and that schools would open back up in two weeks’ time. It wasn’t until late April came along, when I took my last final remotely, that I realized that my college days—at least when it came to classes, since I still have to complete my training before I fully graduate—are truly over. Following my indifference towards this event, which I’ve always been well-acquainted with at college, a strange nostalgia washed over me.
I call it strange because the subject of my nostalgia—my days at university—wasn’t something I felt strongly about while it was happening. I was frustrated, because as a student and just as a human being at that time, I was far from happy, peaceful, passionate, or excited. I was operating as a machine, dreading the daily routine of waking up in the early morning, and completing only what was asked of me. The only thing I felt was never-ending anxiety from the deadlines that I was constantly keeping up with, terrified as I was of missing anything. I thought, even if I was depressed and sullen, I shouldn’t succumb to my state and at least make sure what needed to be done was taken care of. It was exhausting to constantly detach from my depression in order to finish tasks, and it made me eager to be done with college as soon as possible. So it was a surprise for me to realize that I was actually capable of missing those days. I had no idea what there even was to miss, but I knew I just wanted to go back and live through those times again.
There was a swirl of mixed emotions inside me, but genuine fondness for that period was not one of them, no matter what the initial longing tried to persuade me. For one, I was regretful over not making the most of those days before they were over and not appreciating them enough. In retrospect, I can perceive wonderful blessings: I used to see professors I admire constantly; I spent lots of time with my best friend; I used to learn things I typically enjoy. It’s just my depression that made me apathetic towards everything, and so I was distant and indifferent.
My literature professor used to create a wonderful environment of reflecting, sharing and discussing ideas and opinions in each class, but I rarely felt enough enthusiasm to participate in them. I vividly remember that at some point in my life, one of my silly dreams was to be integrated in such an environment where things I loved were being discussed by people I share interests with. But even when it came true, my depressive state at the time didn’t allow for any joy to spring. Despite the light that the good things had brought to my days—all the knowledge, the laughter, and the beauty—the gloominess of my days remained intact, and I still desired for time to swiftly pass.
Besides my regret, I felt the weight of unpredictability, because something that is familiar, however dreary, is no longer there. Even if I dreaded those days, all the repetitiveness assured me that I still had ‘time’. The stagnancy made it seem like time had stopped, and I want to go back now just to experience that again; to feel like I have all the time in the world to figure things out and how to enjoy the days more. Time was not at all affected by anything, but I found safety in the perceived prolongation of it. And maybe there is no explanation at all; longing can be absurd. Maybe I wouldn’t really change anything even if I went back, and going back to that routine would’ve ended me before regret or unpredictability could. Nostalgia deceptively infiltrates our perceptions of the past, and often succeeds in playing on our emotions and confusing them together.
It is crucial to preserve true recollection of memories. Among the dwelling in the emotions nostalgia creates, there’s an opportunity to recognize how important our experiences are. When I realized this, I didn’t want to scold myself and feel guilty for not having been as functional or appreciative as I would’ve liked in the past. Instead I realized that at least, I have something to look back to, something to call my own, even though melancholy stole my joy, and that in and of itself is enough. Experiences, of any nature, should be validated. To have a past, whatever shape it took, is part of my identity, and I know it will be my choice in the future to create memories I can later become fondly nostalgic of.
On the one hand, nostalgia can be agonizing; it has its ways of idealizing memories and fabricating recollections in our minds, producing a plethora of emotions as a result—regret, longing, fear of missing out, and hopelessness about the future. But it can also be beautiful and personally fulfilling. It gives one the freedom to travel back to a past sweetness, to relive it in the nostalgic mind and experience the joy that was felt then—real or perceived—once more. ◆