Nostalgia, is it a trap?

There’s a scene in Cinema Paradiso I always think about. The old cinema owner, Alfredo, tells the boy Totò—who grows up obsessed with movies, “Don’t stay stuck here. Go live your life.” Totò leaves. He doesn’t fully understand why, but he listens.

That kind of advice lingers. Most of us, at some point, live in the past. Sometimes it feels safer there. Or familiar. Or like the last place we remember being truly ourselves. 

Stories I Carry

Nostalgia is tricky. It can make you believe the person you used to be is the person you were meant to be—that everything afterward is a weaker version, a distraction. Even when you try to move forward, you worry you’re leaving something real behind.

So how do you move forward without betraying your old self? I still ask that. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to stories where people leave, get lost, change, and return with new eyes.

 

• The Little Prince travels from planet to planet, meets strange grown‑ups, learns about love from a fox, and finally realizes what he misses most is his rose. She’s dramatic and confusing, but she’s his.
• In The Alchemist, a boy crosses deserts chasing treasure—only to discover it was with him the whole time. The journey was the lesson.
• In Game of Thrones, Arya Stark literally becomes “no one” to survive—changing her name, shedding her identity, training to be emotionless. In the end, she chooses herself, picks up the sword she once threw away, and becomes someone new without losing who she was.

These are big adventures- dramatic, far away. I live in a city. I don’t hop planets or fulfill prophecies. So I ask: What does adventure look like for me?

A Present‑Day Glimpse

The other day I was in a Seoul café, drafting notes. A 2000‑era K‑pop track—“B to the I to the Bang Bang”—slipped out of the speakers, and a table of middle‑schoolers lit up, singing along. I was their age, in the same city, wearing a school uniform with my girlfriends when that song first dropped. Watching them mouth the lyrics reminded me that nostalgia isn’t about age; it’s about resonance—and resonance travels.
My Turn

My identity shifts didn’t arrive with fireworks. They began when I stopped doing anything at all.

When I was working—surrounded by people, deadlines, meetings, goals—I felt myself shaped by what everyone else valued: career growth, status, productivity, ambition. None of that is wrong, but none of it felt like me.

Only when I had time to be alone—really alone—did I start thinking for myself again. I remembered childhood afternoons spent in a makeshift tent, talking to myself, staring at a computer screen for hours, doing nothing in particular. Just existing in my own space. I loved it.

Maybe that’s nostalgia, but there’s truth in it. Those moments weren’t loud, yet they were mine. Now, as an adult, I’ve come back to that same kind of quiet—not as an escape, but as a return to myself. I ask: What do I actually believe? What do I want, outside what everyone else is chasing?

 

 

Why the Blog Exists

Starting this blog is part of that return. I didn’t begin with a master plan; I just wanted to see what would happen if I wrote things down. Would I keep going? Would it matter to me? So far, it’s been quietly rewarding—not because it earns me anything obvious, but because it grounds me. Writing gives me something solid to stand on. It shapes thoughts I’d usually dismiss. It doesn’t fix everything—if anything, it just helps me notice what’s already there.

Writing isn’t about solving problems so I can tackle bigger ones. Corporate life felt like that: always a “next” objective, a measurable outcome, another success to display so I could earn even more pressure. It never ended. This blog is different. Here, I pause. I follow a passing thought and stay with it. It fertilizes my thinking. Maybe that’s enough.
Plans That Weren’t Mine

I used to think that if I could define the future—make a plan, stick to it, follow the map—I’d arrive at the life I wanted. But I didn’t even know what that life looked like. I still don’t. I just followed what seemed “smart.”

I got a corporate job—not out of passion, but because it felt responsible. It wasn’t terrible; the people were fine. Yet something felt off, like I was forcing myself into a shape I never chose. I wasn’t failing—I just couldn’t feel myself inside it, and I didn’t recognize that until later. I was extremely driven—my competitive side wanted to succeed, to be better than everyone else. Eventually I realized the only person I need to outdo is myself. Everyone else is irrelevant.

That path is so structured it looks reliable. You’re told to work hard when you’re young, plan early, set up scaffolding for your future. In some ways that advice helps. It also narrows your life into a format someone else designed. It makes you think you can see your future. But can you really?

Barry Schwartz calls it the Paradox of Choice—too many options overwhelm us and leave us dissatisfied. I’ve found peace in simplifying. Choosing one thing at a time—one project, one thought—feels freer than any five‑year plan ever did. Muting a few LinkedIn over‑sharers I don’t need to hear from anymore was a nice bonus. (Oops.)

No matter how many bathrooms I built near the roller‑coaster, guests still puked on the street—story of my life, and somehow still funny.

 

 

Learning from Nomadland

Around that time I saw Nomadland. People talk about working their whole lives—following the system, playing by the rules—and losing everything anyway. A woman buys a boat for retirement, gets sick, dies before she ever sails. 

The “safe path” is just an illusion. Nice benefits, but no real guarantees. It’s completely up to you which path you take—but there is no such thing as a safe one.It’s not heroic. It’s quiet and real. It made me wonder: What do we do when the structures we trusted don’t deliver the life we imagined? 

This happens more than we admit. People give decades to a job, a belief, a system because they think it will pay off. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t. When it doesn’t, you feel betrayed. You start to question everything. I didn’t want to live in that bitterness. I recognize that letting go of control doesn’t mean losing myself. 

Frances McDormand is one of my favorite actresses. I loved her not only in Nomadland but also in Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri — both unforgettable. Her acting doesn’t call attention to itself. It just lives and breathes on screen, like she’s not performing at all. That’s when she’s at her best.

My Decision

So I made a personal decision: stop trying to predict my future.

That doesn’t mean I’ve given up on planning or responsibility. I like the routine I’ve built, and I’ll keep it. But I no longer manage the future like I’m playing RollerCoaster Tycoon with my life. I don’t assume I can control every twist.

Instead, I focus on one project, one thing I love, one moment at a time. Staying in the present is my chosen limitation. Wanting control only made me anxious and blinded me to what’s right in front of me.

Now I let the future unfold on its own terms. I exist in the not‑knowing. Strangely, that’s where I’ve found the most freedom.

It’s not chaos—it’s just life. When I shifted into that mindset, something opened up. I felt lighter. I even started looking forward to the future. I used to fear getting older. I’m still a little scared, but I also welcome it.

 

 

Full Circle

I understand why old Alfredo had to say that to Totò—the man who spent his entire life in a small‑town movie theater knew nostalgia can trap you in the projection booth. Totò will remember—but he won’t camp there. He’ll move forward, and those memories will shape the person he becomes. Alfredo’s line is a simple cure for any adult who didn’t hear it early on: Carry the past—just don’t camp there.

For the first time, the future doesn’t feel like something I have to conquer.
It feels like something I get to live.

 

 

A Quick Audit of Nostalgia

Keep one memory that still feeds you—write it down in one vivid sentence.

Archive one that’s just taking up mental rent—label it, close the folder, move on.

Honor the keeper: do one tiny present‑tense act that lets that memory breathe now (a song, a photo, a phone call).

Set a timer for five minutes. Pen moves, past integrates, life resumes.