Nostalgia is both my favorite and least favorite sensation, sometimes leaving me with a warm and safe feeling, but more often aching, as it reminds me of what I didn’t know I was losing at the time.

Over winter break, I spent days decluttering my closet, sorting its contents into piles to keep and discard. I found this an unusually difficult task, not because it was physically taxing, but because each item carried intangible nostalgia. I began with my pajama drawer, assuming it would be an easy, approachable place to start. But each time I’d choose to eliminate pajamas, a sharp ping of memory made me reconsider letting them go.

Nearly none of the pajamas were fashionable in any way, but I refused to part with them because of the emotional attachment. After over an hour of deliberation, I surrendered. I stuffed dozens of pajamas – symbols of childhood rituals, road trips, and memories I wasn’t ready to outgrow – back into the drawer. One of them was a faded t-shirt from Sal’s Pizzeria, my family’s go-to spot in the New York town where I spent my earliest years.

I told myself that if I didn’t keep tangible proof of these memories, they’d fade, even though I knew the memories would endure, with or without the shirts. While I hadn’t worn most of the shirts in years, the thought of letting them go felt like erasing evidence of a version of myself that once existed.

I never fully grasp how much I’ll miss something – a person, a moment, an experience – until it’s a distant memory, leaving me no choice but to reminisce, overwhelmed by nostalgia.

What unsettles me the most is how delayed nostalgia can be. Its very definition as “a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past” confirms that it arrives only after the moment has passed. Things that once felt routine, like grabbing a slice of pizza with my family at Sal’s Pizzeria, feel far more meaningful in hindsight. My seventeen-year-old self would give anything to be four again, casually enjoying my favorite pizza in town. It pains me to know that I couldn’t recognize this depth while I was living it.

And yes, it would have been unusual for my four-year-old self to pause in the middle of Sal’s Pizzeria and think, “This will matter someday.” But as I grow older, understanding the pain of hindsight reminds me to savor moments before they slip into memory.

Nostalgia reveals how time works, showing us what we value, often only after it’s gone. It highlights the human tendency to understand presence only through absence.

One day, I unknowingly savored my last slice of Sal’s Pizza, just as I once sat on my father’s shoulders for the last time, or slept in my parents’ bed after waking from nightmares.

So, while it’s absolutely natural to forget to appreciate the present until it’s morphed into the past, let this be a reminder to slow down, stop, and smell the roses – or the pizza. Enjoy what might be your last slice of Sal’s Pizza – or whatever that might be for you – with the understanding that one day, this moment will live only in your memory.