Hey {{first name | friend}},
Do you ever miss a point in your life that you would never actually want to go back to?
I’m 41, and sometimes I really miss my twenties.
I miss all the new experiences. The fun times with friends. The excitement of dating and meeting new people. I miss having enough independence to feel free, but not yet carrying the full weight of being an adult and a family man.
My social calendar was always full. I didn’t take myself—or work—nearly as seriously. Life didn’t feel quite so heavy yet.
My parents were still alive.
I miss the CD and DVD collections. Playing video games for hours without feeling like I should be doing something more productive. The parties, the clubs and the roommates—some significantly better than others.
I remember my first apartment by myself. My first real gig in radio. The girlfriend I thought I was going to marry. The ambition, the self-discovery and that feeling that my entire life was still waiting to happen.
I even miss the completely unreasonable confidence that I could stay out all night, show up for work the next morning and somehow remain a functioning human being.
Now, if I sleep slightly wrong, I need three business days to recover.
My twenties were exciting, transformative and occasionally reckless. I made some poor decisions, but I lived to tell about most of them.
And yet, here’s the strange part:
I wouldn’t go back.
Even if someone handed me a time machine and an artificially restored hairline, I don’t think I would get in.
Because the guy I was back then didn’t have the confidence or life experience I have now. He wasn’t comfortable in his own skin. He was insecure, bad with money and hungover more often than anyone should probably admit publicly.
He was also living with untreated ADHD, depression and anxiety. Alcohol was about the only treatment he had found, and as you can probably imagine, it wasn’t a particularly effective one.
He desperately wanted to fit in. He wanted to be accepted. He wanted to attract women and impress people who probably weren’t thinking about him nearly as much as he imagined they were.
So no, I don’t miss all of it.
I miss the freedom, but not the lack of direction.
I miss the fearlessness, but not the self-destruction.
I miss the possibilities, but not the pressure to become someone other people would approve of.
Maybe that’s what nostalgia really is.
It isn’t always a desire to return to the past. Sometimes it’s grief for the people, places and versions of ourselves that could only exist during one particular chapter.
Sometimes we don’t miss the life itself. We miss how alive we felt while we were living it.
We miss the novelty. The connection. The spontaneity. The hope. We miss waking up and believing that something unexpected might happen that day.
Adult life can slowly squeeze those things out of us. Everything becomes schedules, work, bills, appointments and responsibilities. Even having fun starts to require advance notice and a shared Google Calendar.
But maybe missing the past can tell us something about what we need in the present.
Instead of asking, “How do I get that life back?” we can ask:
“What part of that life am I actually missing?”
Do I need more connection?
More adventure?
More creativity?
More play?
More time when I’m not trying to be productive, responsible or useful to someone?
We may not be able to recreate the old chapter—and honestly, that’s probably for the best. But we can bring some of its best parts into the life we have now.
Call the friend you haven’t talked to in too long.
Go somewhere you’ve never been.
Play the video game. Buy the old CD. Do something spontaneous, even if “spontaneous” now means you only planned it two days in advance.
Give yourself permission to enjoy something without turning it into a goal, side hustle or personal-development exercise.
You don’t have to blow up your current life to feel alive inside it.
At 41, I’m on a different—and hopefully healthier—path. I’m not chasing people the way I used to. I don’t feel the same desperate need to fit in. I know myself better, and I’m finally learning that peace is worth more than approval.
There are things I have now that the younger version of me desperately needed.
But there were also things he had that I don’t want to lose completely.
I don’t want to be 24 again.
I just want to remember that some of the best parts of that kid are still worth carrying forward.
I can be grateful for the chapter, miss it deeply and still be ready for whatever comes next.
All of those things can be true.
Together, we rise.
—Chris
