If old age doesn’t kill me, nostalgia will
I can tell you exactly what I have done for the past 1,883 days, from the people I was with to the mood I was in; every detail is accounted for. I can tell you about birthdays well spent, holidays surrounded by family and around the world vacations–dating back to Dec. 28, 2020.
No, I do not have some sort of superpower to recount every detail at a moment’s notice, but I would consider this fixation an essential to the person I have become. Of course, habits take time to form, and while some attempts at New Year’s resolutions stick around for a month before fading out, I am forever proud that journaling has become part of my every-day routine.
Every night, right before I go to sleep, I journal about my day. Sometimes, the paragraphs look the same: school was tiring, homework was never-ending and sleep was all I looked forward to. But over the years, I have found that there is always something so distinct about each day, allowing me to end the cycle of stagnant living.
I have this somewhat irrational fear of forgetting. I wish more than anything that I could remember every moment and every emotion I feel throughout every day, but as I attempt to gaslight myself against this and preserve each experience, I know that forgetting is a part of life.
My notes app, filled with thousands of thoughts, ends up glitching every time it is used, scrolling down to random days, reminding me of the growth I have had. For much of my life, my fear of missing out has only gotten worse, however, journaling has brought me to realize the extensive memories I have already made, allowing me to find contentment within simple days.
What began as a way to understand my emotions and view my day-to-day progress has led me to understand the importance of bad days. While I, as well as many others around me, wish I was filled with joy and happiness every day, I know that this truly is not possible. Yet, with every day of struggle and challenge, I have learned that I am only able to grow, not fall back. Without a recollection of these days, I would not be able to realize that one bad day is always followed by two good ones.
I wish I could preserve every memory, every photo, every note, every moment of my life. My room is filled with dusty boxes, stacked in every extra space I can find. While they are rarely opened, I can remember what each one is filled with: birthday cards written with sparkly gel pens, trinkets from my childhood, confetti from football games, holiday cards saved up from each year and plane tickets.
I am able to look back at each box, each journal and each day with deep sentiment and joy of the memories I created. Today’s experiences are typically the most important, serving as a reminder that I am a mosaic of my past. While often heartbreaking, nostalgia is proof that I am living a life that I love, and how easily those seemingly ordinary days I once experienced have now become memories I am wishing to return to.
