Nostalgia

Nostalgia

Nostalgia is not a place—

it’s a temperature.

A warm draft that slips under the door

when you weren’t asking for company.

A smell that turns a strange street

into a childhood you didn’t know you missed.

It edits the past softly.

Leaves out the splinters.

Blurs the argument.

Turns the ache into amber

and calls it golden hour.

Nostalgia hums like an old appliance—

always on, never demanding attention,

until the lights flicker

and suddenly you’re standing still

holding a memory like a cup

that’s warmer than it should be.

It tells you

things were simpler then

(which is not the same as easier,

just farther away).

It borrows your voice

to say names that no longer answer.

It plays songs that remember you

better than you remember yourself.

Sometimes nostalgia is gentle—

a porch light at dusk,

the sound of dishes in another room,

someone calling you in

before the dark decided who it would be.

Sometimes it’s sharp.

A reminder that time

doesn’t ask permission

before it keeps going.

But nostalgia isn’t trying to pull you backward.

It’s asking if you noticed

what mattered

while it was happening.

It’s the past tapping the glass,

not to be let in,

but to be seen.

And if you listen closely,

beneath the sweetness,

beneath the ache,

nostalgia is whispering one thing only:

You were alive.

The Future’s Nostalgia

One day,

this moment will ache.

Not the dramatic parts.

Not the days you circled or feared.

The ordinary ones.

This exact quiet.

The way your shoulders rest right now.

The light doing nothing special

except being here.

One day you’ll miss

how unfinished everything felt.

How you didn’t know yet

what would work out.

How the questions were still alive

instead of answered.

You’ll miss the sound of your own breath

before it learned new worries.

The body you inhabit

before it carried different stories.

The version of you

who was still becoming.

The future will be kinder to this moment

than you are.

It will remember you

as brave for standing here

without guarantees.

As tender for loving

without proof.

As alive for choosing presence

over certainty.

Nostalgia isn’t only behind you.

It’s ahead—

waiting patiently

for you to live something

worth missing.

So stay.

Let the dishes be unremarkable.

Let the silence be enough.

Let today pass through you

without trying to capture it.

This moment

is already practicing

how to be remembered.

And years from now,

some softer version of you

will look back and think—

She didn’t know it yet,

but she was home.

How to Live So the Future Thanks You

Live slowly enough

that nothing important has to chase you.

Let the small things

finish their sentences—

the cup warming your hands,

the breath that arrives without instruction,

the way your body tells the truth

before your mind edits it.

Don’t rush to make meaning.

Some moments need to pass through you first

before they explain themselves.

Say what you mean

while your voice is still warm.

Apologize early.

Forgive without waiting

to be proven right.

Choose presence

over performance.

Choose honesty

over being impressive.

Choose rest

before resentment decides for you.

Touch the world

with your bare attention.

Look at people long enough

to let them feel real again.

Let love be practical—

shown up for, repeated, imperfect.

When fear tells you to preserve yourself,

ask whether it means protect

or hide.

Make room for joy

without demanding it stay.

Grief too.

They both teach you

what you’re capable of holding.

Live in a way

that leaves evidence—

not of success,

but of care.

So that when the future looks back,

it doesn’t thank you

for being flawless

or fast

or certain.

It thanks you

for being here

while it mattered.

For choosing to live

as if this moment

would one day

remember you.

— Flower InBloom 🌿