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Why People Feel Nostalgic for Terrible Times

Why People Feel Nostalgic for Terrible Times

Yahoo19-02-2025

A popular Russian joke goes something like this: What did capitalism accomplish in one year that communism could not do in 70? Make communism look good.
As recently as 2015, nearly 70 percent of Russians said the breakup of the U.S.S.R. was a bad thing, and nearly 60 percent said that Stalin played a mostly positive role in history. (More recent polling is less reliable because of Russian President Vladimir Putin's crackdown on political expression.) Many Russians, apparently, are nostalgic for a time of bread lines, shared apartments, and state repression.
They aren't the only ones who sometimes feel nostalgic for times that were difficult, unpleasant, or downright bad. Some soldiers returning from war long for the camaraderie and purposefulness of the deployment. Former co-workers gather and laugh about the nightmare boss who used to terrorize them. Some people miss the early, eerie first few months of the pandemic, when time seemed to have stopped. Periodically, social media bubbles over with people reminiscing about 2020's empty streets, state-mandated personal space, and permission to do nothing.
Nostalgia for terrible things may sound absurd, but many people experience it, for reasons that speak to the way people make meaning of their lives. The central reason for this phenomenon, according to researchers who study nostalgia, is that humans look to our past selves to make sense of our present. Reflecting on the challenging times we've endured provides significance and edification to a life that can otherwise seem pointlessly difficult. The past was tough, we think, but we survived it, so we must be tough too.
To be sure, part of the explanation is that people tend to romanticize the past, remembering it more rosily than it actually was. Thanks to something called the 'fading affect bias,' negative feelings about an event evaporate much more quickly than positive ones. As a difficult experience recedes in time, we start to miss its happier aspects and gloss over the challenges. And nostalgia is usually prompted by a feeling of dissatisfaction with the present, experts say, making the past seem better by comparison.
[Read: Why are people nostalgic for early-pandemic life?]
But even when people clearly remember the adversity, it frequently doesn't seem so bad in hindsight. When Krystine Batcho, a psychology professor at Le Moyne College, began interviewing people of different generations about their childhood memories, she expected that those who grew up during wartime or the Great Depression would feel less nostalgia for their youth than people who grew up in peaceful or prosperous times. But that's not what she found.
Instead, people tended to interweave negative memories with ways they overcame their struggles. One man who survived the Depression, for example, told Batcho that he never had enough to eat as a boy. But then he would remember clever ways he tried to find food, such as picking fruit off of a neighbor's tree, or he would recall getting home from school and walking in the door to the smell of his mother's freshly baked bread—a small luxury he did have.
Batcho says this kind of reminiscing can shed some perspective on current problems, making present-day challenges seem 'more possible to overcome and to deal with, and it reminds you to appreciate what you have,' she told me. 'It reminds us that the future is uncertain, but rather than feeling it as really scary, we can think of it as really exciting.'
There are few large, robust studies on this topic, but some experimental research has shown that nostalgia provides a feeling of authenticity and a sense of connection between your past and present selves. Because of this, we often get nostalgic for consequential moments in our lives. 'People are nostalgic for things that give their lives meaning or help them feel important,' says Andrew Abeyta, a psychology professor at Rutgers University. Sometimes, these meaningful events can be stressful, or even harrowing. As the Belarusian journalist Svetlana Alexievich writes in her book Secondhand Time, many Russians who grew up in the Soviet era proudly remembered fighting in wars or rebuilding their cities; those who didn't, she writes, 'were bitterly disappointed that the Revolution and Civil War had all happened before our time.' Another survey found that the thing that Russians missed most about the U.S.S.R. was 'a sense of belonging to a great power.'
Psychologists define meaning as the feeling that one's life is significant, coherent, and purposeful, says Constantine Sedikides, a psychologist at the University of Southampton, in the U.K. And many times, our actions during a challenging time meet this definition—they are significant, coherent, and purposeful. Turning points in our lives usually provide fodder for nostalgia—and they are rarely drama-free.
Reminiscing about a difficult experience reminds you that at least you survived, and that your loved ones came to your aid. 'The fact that those people did those things for you, or were there for you, reassures you that you have your self-worth,' Batcho said. Research by the psychologist Tim Wildschut and his colleagues found that people who wrote about a nostalgic experience went on to feel higher self-esteem than a control group, and they also felt more secure in their relationships.
[Read: Nostalgia is a shield against unhappiness]
The memories of relationships forged during periods of hardship can cast even extreme experiences in a positive light. In his book Tribe, Sebastian Junger describes a cab driver in Sarajevo speaking proudly of his experience during the country's recent war, when 'he'd been in a special unit that slipped through the enemy lines to help other besieged enclaves.' The war, though horrific, had created 'a social bond that many people sorely miss,' Junger writes. 'Disasters are sometimes remembered more fondly than weddings or tropical vacations.'
Nostalgia tells you that your personal history wasn't just scary or tragic; it helped make you who you are. This is perhaps why women who worked from home with kids during the pandemic probably don't wish for a lack of child care, but they aren't shying away from the workforce, either. Or why women who have recently had babies often grab random strangers by the lapels and regale them with their (in many cases brutal) 'birth story.' It's 'a way of working through the negative aspects and coming out the other side eventually,' Batcho said. 'There's a catharsis to that.'
Remembering hard times allows you to make sense of your life and take stock of your strengths under fire. You may not wish for the past to return, but neither do you want to forget it.
Article originally published at The Atlantic

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I'm 92 and still live independently. I make sure to stay active, and I don't eat a lot of red meat.
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This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Mira Armstrong, a 92-year-old from Porepunkah, Australia. It has been edited for length and clarity. I built my home with my husband, Bruce, in 1956. Now that I'm 92 years old, I still live independently. I hope I croak it here. I was born in Poland in 1933 during the Depression. My father was a shoemaker and in the army reserve. When World War II broke out, he was taken prisoner and sent to Germany. My mother, siblings, and I followed. I got a rough start to life Life was pretty tough. We lived in a derelict, abandoned farmhouse and weren't allowed to go to school because we weren't German citizens. While German children were at school, we'd scavenge at the dump — once, we even found an old gramophone. Toward the end of the war, I remember hearing American planes overhead. An old German man cycled through our village, sounding a siren as they approached. They never bombed our village, only cities and factories. I remember watching thousands of British airmen being marched past on foot. They stopped and ate grass because they were so hungry. I wish I knew how to speak English back then, but I didn't. We moved to Australia after the war, and things changed After the war, we were moved from one displaced persons camp to another. Europe was in chaos. We spent some time in Italy, then came to Australia aboard the SS Skaugum. My father got a job in the ship's kitchen and was finally able to buy toothpaste. We'd cleaned our teeth with ash during the war. When we arrived in Melbourne on March 28, 1950, I was 17. It felt like heaven. Everything was so strange and unusual. We were finally free. My family eventually settled in Porepunkah, Victoria, and I met my husband, Bruce, at the local swimming hole. One day, he waited in his truck to pick my sister and me up from work, and that was it. We were married in 1954 — I was 21, Bruce was 24. Longevity could be hereditary — my mum lived to 97. She was hardworking and survived many hardships, too. But I have also made a few lifestyle choices that may have helped. Being active has always been a priority When I was younger, I used to cycle 24 kilometers to and from work, even to church in high heels. I did everything fast, whether it was housework or heaving hay bales around our farm. When Bruce and I built our house, we dug the foundation holes and the well by hand. We had five kids, and I was constantly busy. I worked in hospitality and retail, never behind a desk. These days, I still walk a lot, mainly around the house and outside, and I like to garden. I eat a balanced diet, and I don't drink or smoke I eat everything — probably because I remember the starvation during the war. Once, we went for four days without food. For breakfast, I have porridge or Weetabix. I eat soup full of veggies, wholemeal toasties, chicken, fish, and walnuts. There's not a lot of red meat in my diet. My vice is fruit, though I have to be careful because I'm borderline diabetic. I never smoked or drank, and I only recently started drinking coffee. Staying social and volunteering is key Our home was always social — full of friends and family. I enjoy spending time with my eight grandkids and eight great-grandkids. I've also done a lot of volunteer work: 29 years with Meals on Wheels, 14 years with the op shop, and years of church work. I get bored easily, and I enjoy giving back. My faith has given me comfort in tough times Bruce died in 1977 shortly after a trucking accident. He was 47 years old, I was 44. I still had three boys at home and about 70 cows to manage on our farm. It was a horrendous time, and I went through hell. I did three part-time jobs and took care of everything on autopilot. After Bruce died, I started cursing God and stopped going to church. Then, in 1992, my youngest son, Graham, was killed in a road accident. It was very difficult, and that's when I returned to church. My faith has brought me comfort ever since. I make sure to keep my mind active I keep my mind active with puzzles and reading. I enjoy thrillers, and hot romances, too. After Bruce died, I'd read romance novels through the night. In the morning, I didn't even remember what they were about. These days, I enjoy feeding the birds and gardening. For what it's worth, these habits may have led to my longevity, and they've surely contributed to my enjoyment of life. But my No. 1 tip for a long life? Don't die!

‘I'm not the hero': At 99, one of America's few living D-Day vets would rather be fishing
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How do you carry a shard of history everybody wants a glimpse of, a memory everyone craves? Edward Sandy and his friend Spero Mihilas shared one such memory but bore it differently. Friends since their Depression-era childhood in upstate New York, they enlisted together in the Navy in 1943, Sandy at just 17. A year later — June 6, 1944 — they found themselves on the same gunner boat off the coast of Normandy, France. Shells exploded around them. Nazi gunfire pounded from the shoreline. It was D-Day, one of the 20th century's most famous battles, history's largest amphibious invasion. With an assault wave of 160,000 Allied soldiers, the Battle of Normandy has been memorialized in countless books and movies. To the soldiers, it was a mess of sea spray, confusion and slaughter. Theirs seemed a suicidal mission — the two friends and their crew were assigned to run a converted landing craft up and down the shoreline, their job to draw enemy fire away from troops making landfall. 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