Vol. 2 | Nostalgia

The older I get, the more I wonder: how will the decisions I make today affect my life in the future?

The other day, I saw a TikTok from the stylist, Pigmami, who suggested that age is relative. “I don’t perceive myself aging linearly every year,” she said. “I’m getting older and accumulating [but] I perceive myself flip-flopping back and forth between years that were harder or easier because I was older or younger.” 

Usually, I don’t subscribe to such whimsical thinking, but I found myself nodding along. She’s right. My actual age has never truly dictated how I see myself. When I was 13, I thought I knew everything (not true), and by 21, I was certain I knew nothing (also not true). Both times, life felt so indescribably serious, and everything turned out fine. So why do I feel so weird about turning 27? 

Before you roll your eyes, yes, I know 27 isn’t old. Sometimes, I remind myself that if I disappeared, the news reports would say what a tragedy, she was so young — although come to think of it, Columbia released a study that calculates your press value based on race, age, and location, and my score was embarrassingly low. 

The other night, I woke up, heart pounding and in a cold sweat, and thought, I used to make choices, but now I make decisions. I’m still trying to make sense of that. Choices are simple. Innocent. Like how I used to say purple was my favorite color, but now it’s blue. It was just my preference at the time. It didn’t mean anything. Now, everything means something. Since crossing into my late twenties, it’s as if life weighs more. Some mornings, I wake up sore for no reason except that I was up thinking. 

Everything seems to require strategy, and though I know life is about spontaneity, I can’t resist the urge to draft up plans. I can’t shake the fear that if I don’t make the right moves now—have a 5-9 before my 9-5, take the right supplements, catch preventable diseases, make more money, connect with my inner child, etc.—it’ll bite me later. What if there’s something I’ve forgotten? Or something I didn’t consider? The older I get, the more I wonder: how will the decisions I make today affect my life in the future?

If I apply Pigmami’s logic to this question, the answer is simple. There’s no way to know. I’ll never feel like I’ve covered my bases because I can feel old when I’m young and young when I’m old.

I suppose that’s good news. There’s no sense in worrying because the timeline of life—the lessons, the love, and the tragedies, too—doesn’t align with age. 30 is 16, and 24 is 12, and 8 is 42. It’s all the same. It all comes together when it wants. If I were to ask my mother, she’d say something similar. “We make plans, and God laughs.”

Even my roommate, Caroline, agrees. Recently, I told her I wished I were 23 because, back then, I wasn’t worried about anything. I just existed. She was quick to correct me. “I don’t think that’s true,” she said. “You’re just remembering it wrong.” 

I know it makes more sense to stress less and live more, but still. What if?

Honestly, I don’t have an answer. I don’t think anything I write here today will satisfy me tomorrow, but I do think my energy is misguided. I’ve been focused on the wrong thing. Asking the wrong questions. Instead of yielding to the future, I’ve been fixated on the past and put my youth on a pedestal it might not deserve. So, here’s something new to consider: is it possible to be nostalgic for what was never really there?

I think so.

When I was 23, I lived in an apartment infested with rats. I didn’t just exist. I cried just as much as I laughed. I wanted to be 27.

Ultimately, I can’t stop time. My birthday will come whether I like it or not, so I have about 90 days to get over myself. As always, the best way out is through. Here are the songs that have kept me company along the way.