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They say stress can kill you. But I think it’s nostalgia that can do it. 

The way nostalgia feels––it’s like it has a heartbeat of its own, and it’s asleep in your chest, and then you smell a certain smell, see a certain thing, hear a certain sound, and the heartbeat thumps, and the memory awakens. 

And it’s so much more than a memory; it’s a moment that’s plucked to the surface that swells in your chest until it’s almost close enough to touch. You just can’t reach through the glass pane that separates past and present. Childhood and adulthood. 

When you’re a kid, you don’t see the colors fading. You didn’t realize when it was the last time you played with your Barbie or made a fort out of blankets. You didn’t realize that it was the last time your mom took you to McDonalds and you slipped off your shoes and played in the indoor playground. 

Sometimes, I think it’s nostalgia that hurts the most. When my parents and I looked through old photo albums of me and my sister as kids, it was hard not to think, “When did these two kids grow up? How did that happen?”

The separation of childhood and adulthood isn’t like Velcro––it’s not the ripping apart of innocence to maturity. It’s like untying a silk ribbon: slow, steady, until it loosens and just…falls away. And suddenly, you can retie the knot. 

I was at my Maid of Honor’s house the other night, and one of our friends said something like, “The sun is setting on our friend group.” He’d said we’re entering dusk, and this time next year, everything will be different. 

With me and my fiancé getting married soon, one of our other closest friends who got hitched in October, one who moved back to the Dominican Republic to be with his family, and another starting grad school, it kind of looks like everyone is moving on with their lives. “Growing up,” one might say.

For every twinge of growing pains is another memory locked into that box in the back of my brain titled “Nostalgia.” 

And even though it hurts to open it––like stretching an idle muscle––I’ll never stop looking at the photo albums or thinking about late nights with my best friends back when I was in my early 20s. I’ll always wrap my fingers around the silk ribbon that used to hold together my childhood. 

There’s this scene in Christmas Vacation when Clark W. Griswold is stuck in his attic (if you know, you know) and was looking at old film he found that shows when he and his family were decades younger. He was crying. But he was smiling. 

And that’s kind of what growing pains feel like for a 25-year-old whose path, like the others’, is leading her away from youth, long nights watching movies with friends, hanging out until midnight because we’re young and don’t have kids. 

Tearing up. But smiling. 

Because following every sunset is a beautiful sunrise.