RECENTLY, I watched a music video that made me pause and reflect. French rap duo Bigflo & Oli, joined by pop star Julien Doré, released “Coup de vieux” (literally, “a hit of feeling old”), a song about those moments when you suddenly realise how much time has passed.

The video is a scrapbook of memories for anyone who grew up in the 1990s and early 2000s. It features the TV stars who shaped our childhoods, the sweets we obsessed over, the music that defined our early playlists. “I’m telling you about a time that people under 20 cannot know”, they sing.

Watching it, I couldn’t help but smile. It was like stepping back into a warm, familiar world – one where I could hear the echo of jingles from long-gone ads, remember the thrill of a well-worn cassette, and recall the faces of cartoon characters who felt like friends.

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But that warmth was complicated. Nostalgia is never simple; it stirs up joy, yes, but also a tangle of emotions about where we have been and where we are going.

For me, that tangle is particularly dense. The video brought back happy memories, but also the contrast of a childhood that wasn’t carefree, with worries far heavier than schoolwork or saving for Pokémon cards.

Yet even in the darkest moments, there were glimmers – small pockets of joy, like the music I loved or the creative games I invented. Nostalgia for those positive moments feels safe, even healing.

But nostalgia for the past as a whole? That is where I hesitate.

In a world as chaotic as ours, nostalgia has never been more tempting. It is everywhere: In the reboots of beloved TV shows, the vintage filters on Instagram, and the endless “You’re a 90s kid if…” memes. It offers a simple, powerful message: The past was better. Life was easier, purer, happier.

But was it really? I think of the racism my family faced when I was growing up – at school, at work, in ways that chipped away at my sense of belonging.

At the same time, my parents wanted us to have access to opportunities they could only imagine growing up. For my mum in particular, nostalgia was never about longing for the past; it was about making thoughtful choices about what to carry forward.

She used to say that it was critical to give us the best of her upbringing and culture while leaving behind what was harmful or regressive. She had so much anger and frustration at the restrictions placed on her dreams as a girl and young woman.

While moving to France was difficult, it allowed her, in the long run, to train as a nurse – the career she had always wanted. She wasn’t nostalgic for a life of limitations – she was determined to build something better for her family.

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Her reflections taught me an important lesson: nostalgia doesn’t have to be a trap that keeps you stuck in the past. It can be a tool – a way to preserve the good while letting go of what holds you back.

If nostalgia isn’t really about the past being better, what is it about?

For many of us, it is less about what was and more about what we fear. The world today feels uncertain, overwhelming, even unrecognisable. Climate crises loom. Technology races ahead faster than we can understand it. Political and social systems seem to be fracturing under the weight of inequality.

In the face of all this, it’s no wonder we look backward. Nostalgia offers a refuge, a sense of stability. It lets us hold onto moments that felt comprehensible and safe – even if, in truth, they weren’t.

One of the most common forms of modern nostalgia is a longing for childhood without screens. We mourn the days when kids played outside until sunset, made up elaborate games, and filled hours with unstructured creativity.

And yet, as adults, we’re often just as addicted to our screens as the kids we criticise. We long for the simplicity of the past, but we don’t know how to disentangle ourselves from the present.

As a parent, this contradiction feels particularly sharp. My three-year-old is already growing up in a digital world. Screens help us connect with faraway family and capture memories we will treasure.

But I also want him to know what it is like to invent his own fun, to be bored in a way that sparks his imagination. Nostalgia reminds me of what is worth protecting – not by rejecting the present, but by finding balance.

I often think about the kind of nostalgia that can be productive, even radical. It is not about idolising the past but asking: What did we lose that we need to bring back?

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Take housing, for instance. I don’t want to romanticise the past as if it was perfect or easy for everyone – housing inequality and discrimination have always existed.

But I do feel nostalgic for a time when it didn’t feel impossible to find an affordable home.

When buying or renting didn’t require sacrificing stability, dignity, or peace of mind.

The current crisis makes even the most basic aspects of housing security feel like unattainable luxuries for so many.

This kind of nostalgia isn’t about longing for the past to return unchanged. It is about reflecting on what worked and finding ways to adapt those principles for today.

Similarly, I find myself nostalgic for a time when public services felt better supported, when access to healthcare, education, and community spaces didn’t feel so precarious.

These weren’t perfect systems, but they reflected a collective investment in fairness and opportunity – values we seem to have let slip.

Ultimately, nostalgia is about choices: What we choose to remember, what we choose to let go of, and what we choose to build next.

Nostalgia can guide us, but only if we’re careful about what we choose to hold onto.

For society, it means looking at the past with clear eyes – not as a perfect golden age but as a mix of lessons and mistakes.

It means being nostalgic for the right things – not the comforting myths but the real, tangible gains we can learn from and fight to reclaim.

But longing for these things isn’t enough – we need to translate that longing into action, into a commitment to rebuild and protect what matters.

The world my child is inheriting is far from perfect, but it is filled with opportunities to do better.

Nostalgia reminds us of what is possible, but it is up to us to make it real.