I have always believed the grass is greener on the other side.
Some interpret that phrase as stemming from a place of greed, but I could not disagree more — I feel it captures a very human hope. Sometimes something is missing from the present. That absence is not a failure of gratitude nor perspective; it is a practically inevitable experience.
At one point or another, everyone becomes aware that there is a gap between where they are and where they want to be. This space holds both our wildest dreams and the fears that we will never accomplish them. It is a double-edged sword we can wield in one of two ways: as fuel to propel us into the future or as weight dragging us down into the past.
The online world has recently made it clear which direction it has chosen to run.
We are currently experiencing 2016 for the second time in a decade. It was as if we, as a society, decided to turn our clocks back just as the calendars were supposed to flip. Since New Year’s Day, a feverish infatuation with the year has spread infectiously throughout both the digital and physical worlds, with “2026 is the new 2016” ringing through social media like a celebration. Or maybe even a threat.
The obsession with 2016 seems completely lighthearted. After all, what could be malicious about unicorn frappuccinos, fidget spinners and an insatiable hunger for a version of ourselves that we will never fully get back?
No matter how silly and harmless it seems, a desire to relive the past can easily become a refusal to embrace the future. It may not be an active danger, but the fact that we are passively embracing regression instead of progression should not be taken lightly. To recreate 2016 is to mistake nostalgia for direction, and forsake growth for solace.
For as long as I can remember, I have been a chronic reminiscer. It showed up in my life in all kinds of small ways. I would only listen to songs I knew by heart and playlists that transported me back to summers past. I would replay old conversations before bed as if I would ever get a chance to use the new lines I was creating. I would spend nights scrolling through my own camera roll as if it was a museum, revisiting old memories when I could have been making new ones.
For the longest time, whenever I was stressed about schoolwork, my immediate instinct was to reflect on a time where no such problems existed, and 2016 fell perfectly in that period. I only remember a hazy picture, yet I feel that encapsulates 2016 better than a clear one would. It was a colorful collage of memories pasted together like a scrapbook. Justin Bieber’s album circulating the charts. Hurling water bottles into the air, only for them to land anywhere but upside down on the table. High school felt centuries away, and college was simply an abstract concept. There was no homework, no extracurriculars and certainly no AP classes. It was so carefree.
But, I was also a child without any real awareness. Of course it felt untroubled — my biggest responsibility was being the line leader at lunch.
Until that dawned on me, I couldn’t imagine there was grass any greener than the fields I used to run through when I was seven years old. Full of sprinklers and fireflies, the only boundaries I had back then were the ones my friends and I set around the park when playing tag. As long as I stayed between the slide and the monkey bars, I didn’t have a care in the world.
It was a magical time, but it would be a disservice to that magic to assume that it could be instantly recreated at any given minute. Not every memory is a core one, and it is often very difficult to predict what bits and pieces of a moment in time will stick with you for the rest of your life. But that is exactly what makes it so special.
There is nothing inherently wrong with recognizing all the beauty memories can bring. But thinking back on it fondly is hardly the same as letting the desire to relive it consume your thoughts and present. I never saw that I was standing still until I noticed how frequently I was looking back.
That was when I realized how dangerous nostalgia can truly be. We think we are staying present when really, our heads are in the past. And because of this, we are captivated by the rearview mirror when our eyes should be on the road ahead. Nostalgia is eerily similar to evolution; both are grounded in the core belief that a better version of the present exists somewhere over the rainbow. And yet the fork in the road remains: will you move forward or backward to chase it?
With all the time I had spent replaying old memories, I was inhibiting myself from making so many new ones. And given this was almost 16 years worth of adventures and opportunities forsaken, I realized I had a lot of catching up to do. It became my goal to let myself sit with the unfamiliar and unfinished. And suddenly, I saw myself become more grounded, present and excited about both daily and future tasks, no matter how mundane. I found new favorite songs that I would have never listened to before, made memories without feeling the need to photograph them and embraced the current moment with open arms. In letting go of what was, I made space for what is.
Nostalgia is a lens, not a destination. And it is a very powerful lens at that. It can blur, it can blind and, most importantly, it can filter. We can see this quite literally when looking at 2016, since it was coincidentally the era of vibrant oversaturation and sunset-hued Instagram feeds. We only see that brightness, the radiance of a zeal and zest for life that we miss and mistakenly believe we lost along the way.
I understand the desire to curate. I have never been much of a meticulous organizer, and yet the prospect of completely recalibrating my own life never fails to bring it out of me. Vision boards upon spreadsheets upon slideshows worth of planning and executing New Year’s resolutions? Don’t threaten me with a good time. This year was no different, especially now that my eyes were towards the future. I was looking forward to 2026 in the same way I look forward to Mondays, haircuts and mornings — like it was a fresh start.
I never wanted my 2026 to be a carbon copy of another year that already happened ten years ago. That was simply not the goal, even if that year was a great one, full of some of my fondest childhood memories. After all, memory can remind us who we were, but it cannot tell us where to go.
To embrace 2026 as its own year is to be present in the present. The grass may look greener behind us, but everything looks brighter with a filter on it. To me, the only grass worth watering is the lawn you want to see grow under your feet.
