The Unexpected Power of Nostalgia

There’s something strange that happens to people going through life transitions.

You start seeing the past through golden-tinted windows. Little things. The smell of desert rain. The way your dad used to hum when he drove. The sound of your childhood screen door creaking shut at dusk. These fragments rise up in moments when your present life feels…ambiguous. Like you’re between stories. Not quite who you were. Not yet who you’ll become.

That tension? That ache?

That’s nostalgia.

But not the cliché version of nostalgia. I’m talking about real nostalgia—the kind that doesn’t just remember the past, but reaches for something deeper: meaning, identity, clarity.

And as strange as it sounds, nostalgia might be doing more than just stirring old emotions. It might be trying to save you.

Nostalgia as a Stabilizer in Chaos

When life feels out of sync—a career shift, the quiet house after kids move out, the sudden stillness of retirement—nostalgia shows up. Not as a distraction, but as something quieter and wiser. A kind of emotional recalibration.

We know now through both science and soul that nostalgia activates parts of the brain designed not just to remember, but to restore:

The hippocampus, to hold your timeline together. The medial prefrontal cortex, to help you reflect. And the reward centers that light up with a flicker of purpose—not just because the memory feels good, but because it meant something.

It doesn’t just bring back the past. It reminds you your core identity.

This matters. Especially when your identity is in flux. When roles shift and you start questioning your purpose, or you’re navigating the ache of becoming someone new—nostalgia can anchor you. It whispers:

“You’ve carried meaning before. You know how to move through change. The things that mattered to you—they still do.”

But it gets even more personal.

A Moment That Found Me

Earlier this year, I found myself back in the climbing gym where it all began—just outside of Provo, walls lined with chalked plastic and the faint scent of rubber and ambition. It had been years since I’d first stepped through those doors as a college sophomore, still figuring out who I was, but certain I’d found something important.

That gym wasn’t just a place. It was the birthplace of my growth. Of real friendships. Of weekends that felt like purpose and evenings that felt like home.

Stepping back in, something hit—maybe it was the smell, maybe the echo of laughter off cinder block—but I could feel that old hunger again. That season where every week I climbed harder, grew faster, connected deeper. Before life layered itself in noise and nuance. Before student loans. Before careers. Before the world fell into endless headlines and hot takes.

It wasn’t just about missing that time. It was about remembering who I became there—and what parts of me I’d unknowingly left behind. That version of me didn’t yet carry the weight of student loans or existential headlines. But he carried something else—a clarity. A lightness. A sense of forward motion that came from real friendship, shared challenge, and the thrill of visible growth. Life felt simple then—not because it lacked meaning, but because the meaning was obvious. It lived in the rhythm of class, climbs, cheap food, and late-night conversations that made you feel like you were becoming someone.

And maybe that’s why it all hit so hard. Because somewhere along the way, between responsibilities and transitions and the growing noise of the world, some of that simplicity got buried. The climbing gym didn’t just remind me of what I used to do—it reminded me of how it used to feel to be me. And that feeling, that recognition, became a kind of map. Not pointing backward. But pointing forward… through something I’d forgotten was still mine.

Not Regression. Integration.

Nostalgia gets a bad rap sometimes. People assume it makes you soft. That it keeps you stuck in the past. But that only happens when we chase the image and forget the invitation.

Because nostalgia—at its best—isn’t about going back. It’s about remembering forward.

It lets you carry things with you. Joy. Wonder. Hunger. Simplicity. The parts of you that are worth bringing into whatever comes next.

That’s not regression. That’s integration.

And what’s wild? Neuroscience backs this up. Nostalgia has been shown to restore emotional balance, renew motivation, increase optimism, and even ease physical pain. It doesn’t just stir the heart. It activates the brain.

We thought it was just sentimentality. Turns out it’s medicine.

What to Remember. What to Do.

Nostalgia isn’t here to pull you backward. It’s here to show you what mattered. To call your attention to the values, experiences, and emotional truths that once made life feel clear and alive.

And maybe, if you listen closely, it can show you something else too:

What to reclaim. What to prioritize. And how to navigate life transitions with more clarity.

So the next time something stirs your soul from a simpler time, don’t just brush it off. Ask yourself: What part of me is this trying to bring back? What rhythm have I lost that I want to find again? What did life feel like back then—and how can I honor that in how I move forward?

Let your memories become a mirror. Let them remind you what’s worth rebuilding. Let them lead you forward—not with nostalgia as an escape, but as a compass.

Next: In Part 2 we’ll explore the neuroscience behind nostalgia—including how it reduces pain, activates the brain’s reward system, and reshapes how you relate to your future.