a place in this world

how nostalgia protects us from the worries of the present

I heard something on a podcast the other day about our need, as we age, to escape into nostalgia, into the “simpler” times of our youth, when - maybe some bad stuff was going on - but we just weren’t aware of it yet. We didn’t have to be.

Personally, I tend to go back to about 2004-2007, somewhere between middle and high school, when I was really beginning to discover music - and with that, a future - for myself.

In 2004, Ashlee Simpson’s Autobiography and Ryan Cabrera’s Take it All Away came out, which, rather unfortunately, inspired me to dye my hair black and discover a new “personal style” that incited a wave of unending, somewhat embarrassing transformations.

In 2005, I went to my first CMA Fest in Nashville, after which I told my mom, “I’m going to live here someday.” Just like that, I knew. And shockingly, I did it. (I also returned to a more natural hair color.)

In 2006, Taylor Swift’s debut album was released. We actually pre-ordered it (take that, $1500/ticket Swifties).

In 2007, I met Taylor’s dad while working at CMA Fest, as well as someone who introduced me to the concept of Belmont University, which quickly became my one-way ticket to a life in Nashville. I will be forever grateful to that stranger, wherever she is. (Matter of fact, I wonder if she’s still working in the music business. Hmmm - not many of us are, it seems.)

All of those years - long ago as they may seem - didn’t just inspire me; they made me. And sometimes, I wish I could just go back.

You see, every song from this era of my life takes me back to a place of unabashed hope. I was navigating my first big-time crush and writing songs about him. I was daydreaming about one of those songs making it on the radio. I was unique, my own person, with my own “Get Out of This Town” (Carrie Underwood, ‘07) mentality that made me feel like I was chasing something different than my fellow classmates. And I believed in it. Oh, did I believe.

So this morning, I felt a sudden need to listen to that original Taylor Swift album - a song called “A Place in This World,” more specifically. To my surprise, I still remembered almost every word, every held note, every syncopated rhythm in the final round of the chorus. That song, along with most of the album, is ingrained in the deepest parts of my soul, which sounds dramatic, but is very wholly true. I played the heck out of that CD for years, singing along as I gained the independence of being able to drive around my hometown for the first time, as my mom and I drove to some random high school on a Monday night to see her perform, as I wrote silly birthday cards to a guy who just couldn’t care less. Those songs were me. They were my story. And they were a huge part of the reason I felt so determined to follow my own path, even if it didn’t turn out the way I expected.

When I hear those songs, they still resonate. But now, they hold an even greater power. As I return to my younger self, I am able to forget - just for a moment - about racism and guns and reproductive rights and political agendas. I’m able to forget about the developing countryside around me, about how different Nashville is now from what it was back then. It’s not avoidance; it’s therapy. It’s the ultimate comfort, with far less calories than a bowl of mac and cheese or a pile of my mom’s home-baked cookies.

We all have to change. We all have to grow. I get that - and I accept it. But, as noted by the brilliant Samantha Irby on the Forever 35 podcast, it’s hard now to fault our parents for listening to their favorite oldies in the car back when we were kids and thought they were so uncool and out of touch. They were just trying to get back in touch with themselves.

And now, we’re the uncool ones, reminiscing on the days of skinny jeans and side parts, slowly drifting back into the past of ‘90s and early aughts nostalgia whenever we need to escape the stress of the present and the uncertainty of the future. We get it. But no matter what the kids say about my stacks of CDs in their scratched and broken cases…I’m not uncool; I’m just trying to survive.