The Nostalgia Plague

Grief is the Bermuda Triangle of the human heart.

It confuses and disorients, blindfolds us and spins us around. It tricks and deceives, then swallows us whole.

We take a step forward, then three steps back. Then four steps back. Then ten. Then fifty. And before long, we’re running backwards, completely and utterly lost in the void.

In my new book (title reveal coming this summer), I pick up where Even if you don’t left off – in the immediate aftermath of my wife’s death. Whereas Even if you don’t explored the torrents of love and loss, the new book will delve into what is arguably the greatest challenge in human existence: living after loss.

As I was doing some minor editing this week, I came across a passage that struck me. It came at a point in the story where I was given the opportunity to travel out west with a friend. Fresh in my grief, the prospect of such a trip plunged me into great inner turmoil. Though I ultimately decided to go (one of the best choices I’ve made as a widower), that choice came on the heels of a long internal dilemma.

Here is that passage, my thought-response to my friend’s invitation:

“For the first time since Kailen’s death, genuine excitement found its way into my soul. I was almost confused by it, befuddled and disoriented; I was used to looking backward, not forward.”

That is the essence of grief.

We look backward, not forward.

This phenomenon, in large part, is driven by nostalgia: the bittersweet longing for times gone-by.

I will plainly confess – you may never meet anyone more nostalgic than I am. I idolize simpler times, eidetically fixate on memories, and often feel myself longing to go back to “the way things were before.”

In healthy doses, nostalgia is harmless. But for the griever, it’s anything but benign.

Looking backward is disorienting. Do it long enough and you’ll eventually look up and no longer recognize your surroundings. You’ll be lost and not even know it.

Like so many grief processes, it happens in a progression:

First, it inconspicuously lures you into the Triangle.

It welcomes you and makes you feel at home.

Then it blindfolds you.

And spins you.

And when you can see again, backward has become forward and forward backward.

You’re lost. And so is your hope.

I’ve said each of the last two weeks that grieving impacts our memories. In grief, every new memory is now stained with the old.

And this week I will say this – that is okay.

It is okay to glance back, to remember the beauty that was lost. It is okay to feel nostalgic, or even to indulge those feelings. The old stains don’t make the new memories any less valuable.

But what you can’t do is let nostalgia consume you. You can’t stare backward for so long that you forget what is forward; you can’t let yourself be blindfolded. Trust me, the Bermuda Triangle is no place for healing.

Never forget what you lost, but don’t be afraid to gaze into the future and realize that your heart still beats.

A fellow journeyer,

Bryan

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