In The Threads of Nostalgia
By LUCY JUNG ‘25 and GRACE YANG ‘27
When we think about nights at Exeter, we picture moments like the muffled hum of late-night talks, the smell of ramen curling through the hallway, and Facetiming friends until unholy hours. Yet, our nights are also often filled with quiet tears shed over homework as stress seeps into our brains, hindering our focus and scarring our truly Exonian souls.
Nostalgia has a strange way of visiting us, preventing the fulfillment of the phrase “out of sight, out of mind.” Whether through intricate déjà vu moments or in a less structured way, nostalgia comes and goes as we stand under the twinkling lights of Christmas or lie on the warm, sunny beaches of summer, away from the Exeter bubble. Maybe we miss the weekends spent in town with our friends when we shamelessly yelled unhinged dares in public and laughed until tears ran down our faces. Or perhaps we miss the memory of running upstairs to a beloved dormmate’s room, interrupting her study session with gossip until the faculty on duty knocked on our door to quiet down. Or it may be that we miss our Sunday afternoons in the library with friends, during which we all stuffed ourselves in the corner of a carrel and passionately shared opinions — a little too passionately, a little too loud — until a librarian came and yelled at us. Or it could even be that we miss short late-night walks around campus and town, engaged in deep conversation with dear confidants.
The same goes for the other way around. When we are at Exeter under the mountain, loads of work and nostalgia remind us of the comforts of our home. When one is swamped with homework, one tends to miss their bed a little bit more, their mother’s embrace, and warm home-cooked food. When one receives a horrible test grade, the gut feeling of disappointment and concern spilling from their teachers’ eyes stabs their ego, and it comforts them to think about a happy memory they miss. And during heated arguments, when one’s words fumble and excuses falter, one cannot help but think, I miss home.
Memories live rent-free in our brains as we allow the same scene to replay millions of times. But are these memories faithful retellings, or are they fragments connected by time? Do they paint an accurate picture of our past, or are they idealistic recreations?
Humans aren’t always honest. We often soften our words to paint a kinder picture for others or twist our memories to convince ourselves that a fictional event happened. We carry our pasts like well-worn coats; some are light and comfortable, woven with happy memories, while others are heavy and burdensome, thick with regret. As humans, we are inherently storytellers — weaving intricate narratives from the tapestry of our lives, editing, and embellishing as we continue to live. Our environment crafts multiple versions of ourselves through various chapters of our lives, yet a consistent thread that defines our authenticity at the core is our ability to reminisce — nostalgia keeps us grounded in who we truly are.
We often catch ourselves in the web of our own contradictions: our heart disobeys our words, our minds, and our actions. As teenagers, we’re oftentimes engulfed in extreme emotions, wrapped in vulnerability; our hormones gift us the ability to feel things more vividly than those of other age groups. Boarding school amplifies this intensity: Exeter casts a crown of responsibility and maturity upon us. The quick pace of Harkness discussions that extend across thirty pages of reading, the wide range of extracurriculars we commit ourselves to, and living away from home rapidly mold us into students who know how to lead, communicate, and persevere. But when midnight strikes and the dead silence of an Exeter evening engulfs us, we aspire to be like Cinderella — running home. Nostalgia tucks us in at night as sincerity, and the subsequent vulnerability magnifies every joy and sorrow within our memories. We go to sleep as (insert your name) rather than as an “Exonian” with (insert your résumé).
But when our deafening alarm sounds with the dawn, the thrill of being kept on our toes and swamped with work chimes back in, and our torn inner dialogues lead us to sink deeper into the endless cycle of romanticizing the past. We grasp onto the fragments of memories, ranging from murky childhood stories to kind words spoken to us a few days ago. Our minds are wired to emphasize emotional moments with exaggeration, almost distorting reality. We add onto nostalgic scenes with a sprinkle of anticipation, misleading footage of memories on a track of “idealized truth.” A filter cast by our minds shields us from the fear of growing up. It blurs the line between reality and imagination, creating a utopia and granting us a sense of belonging and comfort. Our slightly contorted nostalgia can soften our edges and protect us from the pains of Exeter but can also blind us from what lies ahead if we become too immersed.
Individuals will never be completely free of the past. Each word they speak and every story they tell is drawn from already lived experience. They stitch together events from yesterday, last month, or years ago to build a narrative of today. Even as we write this, we’re pulling inspiration from various past scenes of our lives that shaped us. But being too deeply submerged in nostalgia, especially if we disregard all bad memories and only cherish good ones, can prevent us from recognizing a rather simple, universal truth — life holds so much more ahead if only we are brave enough to seek it.
The past is a compass, pointing us toward who we’re becoming. Our bad memories are not weights that must be endured but rather are points of reference to prevent future mistakes. Our good memories are not moments to be eternally trapped in but rather are quite comparable to a Celsius or Monster drink in that they boost our morale when we fall into the trenches. We must embrace both types, for in nostalgia’s imperfection lies its beauty: a reminder that we’re not just “alive” but rather are “living,” weaving together moments that, flawed as they may be, make us who we are.
And that’s more than enough.