I guess I’m feeling reflective.
Thirty-nine years into this life has a way of making a person introspective. Maybe it’s the age. Maybe it’s the tequila. Maybe it’s just another middle-aged cliché playing itself out. Whatever it is, here I am, staring at a blank page, trying to decide what deserves to be written.
The truth is, I’m thinking about yesterday.
It’s funny how the past works. Looking back, everything seems brighter. The laughs were louder. The late nights lasted longer. The smiles felt bigger. We remember the highlights and somehow forget the reasons those chapters ended.
But that’s bullshit.
Deep down, we know it.
We tell ourselves life was simpler. That we were happier. That if we could just rewind ten years, everything would fall back into place. We build museums out of memories and conveniently leave out the cracks in the foundation.
I catch myself doing it all the time.
I think about the wife I used to have. The family I used to have. The version of my life that looked complete from the outside. From a distance it glows. It feels warm. Familiar. Safe.
Then I sit with it a little longer.
I remember the little things. The conversations that never happened. The compromises that slowly became resentment. The tiny idiosyncrasies that quietly chipped away at us until there wasn’t much left to hold onto.
And suddenly I don’t just remember where I was.
I remember why I left.
That’s the danger of nostalgia. It edits reality. It keeps the sunsets and throws away the storms.
Maybe that’s why so many of us spend our lives chasing versions of ourselves that never actually existed. The career we thought we wanted. The relationship we thought would complete us. The identity we built because it looked good on paper.
But eventually your soul gets tired of pretending.
You can design your life however you want. You can fake fulfillment. You can collect titles, money, status, approval. But sooner or later, something inside you starts pulling you back toward the truth.
The question isn’t whether you’ll hear it.
The question is how long you’ll ignore it.
I’ve spent plenty of time wondering if I’d be happier if I could go back. If I’d made different decisions. If I were born in a different decade. If I could just replay the good parts one more time.
But maybe that’s the wrong question.
Maybe the better question is this:
If you stripped away nostalgia, obligation, and everyone else’s expectations, what kind of life would you build today?
Because yesterday isn’t calling you back.
Tomorrow is.
And maybe that’s where you’ve belonged all along.
