Nostalgia can comfort or it can anchor you in the past
Each December, the senses conspire to pull us backward — a scent, a melody, a familiar dish — and we find ourselves standing at the threshold between who we were and who we are. Psychologist Susan Albers of the Cleveland Clinic observes that this nostalgia is neither purely gift nor burden, but a bittersweet current running beneath the season's rituals. When honored with care, it connects us to love and continuity; when left unchecked, it can anchor us in absence and grief. The challenge of the holidays, it seems, has always been learning to carry memory without being carried away by it.
- A single smell or song can collapse decades in an instant, flooding the present with the emotional weight of everything that once was.
- For many, this seasonal pull toward the past offers genuine relief — a sense of being held by tradition when the present feels uncertain or exhausting.
- But when cherished people are gone and familiar rituals no longer exist, nostalgia curdles into something heavier: depression, isolation, and a present that feels hollow by comparison.
- Mental health experts are urging people not to abandon memory, but to consciously build new traditions alongside the old, so the season belongs to the living as much as the remembered.
- The current trajectory points toward a more intentional holiday culture — one that honors the past without surrendering the present to it.
There is a particular kind of ache that arrives with the holidays — triggered by something as small as the smell of cinnamon or a song heard in passing. Suddenly you are elsewhere: a childhood kitchen, a room full of people no longer present. This is nostalgia, and it returns each December with quiet reliability.
Susan Albers, a psychologist at the Cleveland Clinic, describes the emotion as fundamentally bittersweet. The holidays are rich with sensory anchors — repeated traditions, familiar foods, songs tied to specific years — and these cues transport us backward. For many, that journey is restorative. Sitting down to a dish a grandmother once made, or watching a film from childhood, can lift mood and ease the stress the season itself generates. The repetition of tradition promises a feeling of being held by something larger than the present moment.
Yet nostalgia has a darker face. When it lingers too long, it stops offering comfort and begins cataloguing loss — people who have died, relationships that have ended, versions of life that no longer exist. The present begins to feel thin against the richness of what was. What was meant to connect can instead isolate, leaving a person stranded in grief rather than gathered in warmth.
Albers recommends holding both truths simultaneously: honoring memory while remaining tethered to the present, and deliberately weaving new traditions into the season so it is not only a monument to the past. The goal is not to suppress nostalgia but to keep it from becoming a prison — to let remembrance comfort without consuming, and to allow the holidays to belong as much to what is becoming as to what once was.
The holidays arrive and with them comes a particular ache. A song plays, or you catch the smell of cinnamon, and suddenly you're somewhere else—a childhood kitchen, a room full of people no longer there, a version of yourself that felt different. This is nostalgia, and it arrives reliably each December, woven into the fabric of how we celebrate.
Susan Albers, a psychologist at the Cleveland Clinic, has spent considerable time thinking about this emotion and what it does to us. She describes nostalgia as fundamentally bittersweet—a blend of joy and longing that emerges when the rituals of the season trigger memories we've carried for years. The mechanism is simple and powerful: a familiar smell, a repeated tradition, a song that played last year and the year before that. These sensory anchors transport us backward, and for many people, that journey feels restorative.
There is real comfort in this. Nostalgia can lift mood, offering relief from the stress that the holidays themselves bring. When you sit down to eat a dish your grandmother made, or watch the same film you watched as a child, something settles. The memory connects you to people you love, to versions of yourself that felt safe or happy or whole. Albers notes that these simple moments—a meal, a movie, time spent with family—activate vivid recollections, especially those tied to childhood. The repetition itself becomes the point. Year after year, the same traditions promise the same feeling of being held by something larger than the present moment.
But nostalgia has another face, one that Albers is equally careful to name. When it deepens, when it lingers too long, it can become a weight. The traditions that once comforted can instead remind you of absence—people who have died, relationships that have ended, versions of your life that no longer exist. Dwelling too heavily in the past can anchor you there, making the present feel thin by comparison. The result is not warmth but depression, not connection but emotional exhaustion. The holidays, meant to bring people together, can instead isolate you in grief.
The question then becomes how to hold both truths at once. Albers offers practical guidance: stay tethered to the present moment, even as you honor the past. Create new traditions alongside the old ones, so that the season is not only about what was but also about what is becoming. Let memory inform your celebrations without consuming them. The goal is balance—to allow nostalgia to comfort without letting it overwhelm, to remember without being imprisoned by remembrance. The holidays will still carry their weight of feeling. But that weight need not be unbearable.
Notable Quotes
Too much nostalgia can anchor you in the past and make you feel emotionally weighed down— Susan Albers, psychologist at Cleveland Clinic
Reviving favorite activities with loved ones can create a sense of connection and improve mood— Susan Albers, psychologist at Cleveland Clinic
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does nostalgia hit so much harder during the holidays than at other times of year?
Because the holidays are built on repetition. The same songs, the same foods, the same gatherings—they're designed to feel familiar. And familiarity is a direct line to memory. When you're doing something you've done dozens of times before, your brain doesn't just notice the present moment; it overlays all the previous versions of that moment on top of it.
So it's not really about the holidays themselves, but about the ritual?
Exactly. The ritual is the trigger. A specific smell or song becomes a key that unlocks a whole room of memories. And that can feel wonderful—like being held by something bigger than yourself. But it also means you're constantly comparing what's happening now to what happened then.
And that's where the danger lies?
Yes. If the past felt better, or if people who were there are now gone, that comparison becomes painful. You're not just remembering; you're grieving. The holiday that's supposed to bring joy becomes a reminder of loss.
How do you break that cycle without losing the comfort of tradition?
You don't break it. You expand it. Keep the old traditions, but add new ones. Do something this year that you've never done before. That way, the season isn't only about what was. It's also about what's happening right now, with the people who are actually here.
Is it that simple?
No. It takes intention. You have to consciously choose to be present, even when memory is pulling you backward. But that choice is available to you.