In the musical Ragtime, there’s a character simply called Mother. When her husband leaves for a year-long expedition, she transforms. She takes in a Black couple and champions them — scandalous in early 1900s upper-crust New York society. She makes decisions, finds her voice, and becomes someone new. When her husband returns and tries to fit her back in the box she once occupied, she can’t do it. She sings a song called “Back to Before,” and it’s all about how you simply cannot return to who you were.
I think we can all relate to that tension.
We long for the past.
We long for that thing that was.
There’s actually a psychological term for it — rosy retrospection — which is our tendency to remember the past as kinder and gentler than it may have actually been. We don’t remember the anxiety of that “easier” chapter. We remember the feeling of being less burdened.
I know that feeling personally. My son has epilepsy. I can remember a time when they were petit mals — frightening, yes, but something our family had learned to navigate. Something that had become, in its own difficult way, our normal. Then came the grand mals, and everything shifted. I remember thinking if I could just get back to before that happened, we could handle this. What I didn’t realize at the time was that “before” wasn’t waiting for me. It had already closed.
That’s the thing about “before.” Even if you could somehow return to that exact moment in time, you would bring this version of yourself with you. You’ve grown. You’ve changed. So you truly can’t go back. What Mother’s song captures so beautifully is that the “before” she mourns was also a version of herself that was smaller, quieter, and less fully alive. Growth and loss are often the same door.
When we spend our energy facing the rearview mirror, we risk getting stuck there. Nostalgia in small doses is sweet, warm, and deeply human. But when we move in there, it becomes a form of grief that never resolves. It keeps us comparing the present to an idealized past that didn’t quite exist, and the present always loses that competition. We can become so loyal to who we were that we become strangers to who we’re becoming.
Here are four things that can help you move forward:
Honor it, then set it down. You are absolutely allowed to miss what was. Grief is real, and grief is authentic. But there’s a difference between visiting the past and moving in there. Acknowledge what you’ve lost, feel it fully – then deliberately turn toward what remains.
Ask: What does this make possible? Every ending carries a hidden opening. The question can’t only be “what did I lose?” It has to become “what is this new chapter calling forth in me? Who am I becoming?” That’s where the real focus belongs. Not on the closing door, but on the one that’s beginning to open.
Trade nostalgia for gratitude. Nostalgia looks backward. Gratitude — real appreciation — lives in the present. Instead of wishing you could return to a good moment, practice being grateful it happened at all. That single reframe moves you out of longing and into appreciation. And appreciation puts you right back in the present, where your life is actually happening.
Build something to move toward. The pull of the past is strongest when the future feels empty — when there’s nothing on the horizon you’re looking forward to. So put something there. It doesn’t have to be grand; even something small gives forward motion a direction. Once you start moving forward, it becomes easier to keep going. Mother doesn’t end her song with any kind of tidy resolution. She can’t get back to the past, but she stands in the truth of her own change. I think that is actually the bravest thing any of us can do. Not pretending the past didn’t matter and not letting it hold us hostage either. Just standing in who we’ve become.
I still have moments where I’d give anything to go back to before. But I’ve also learned that the version of me who came through what came next is more capable, more compassionate, and more present than I ever was before.
You can’t go back to before.
But you can decide, right now, what you’re moving toward and allow the next chapter to begin.
Building anticipation:
