I scrolled through old photos last night—high school reunion pictures someone had posted.
There we were, seventeen and stupid, grinning at the camera like we had any idea what life was. The comments flooded: “Best years of our lives!” “Miss this so much!” “Wish we could go back!”
I liked the photos. Added a nostalgic comment. Then closed the app and shuddered at the thought of actually reliving any of it.
Memory operates like Instagram filters—softening harsh details, enhancing appealing moments. The anxiety attacks before presentations fade into background noise. The friendship laughter amplifies until it’s all you remember.
But I know the truth. High school was terrible.
“You miss school?” Happy asked, noticing my phone.
“Miss the memory of it. Not the actual experience.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Everything.”
The photos showed friendship, fun, youth. What they didn’t show: the crushing anxiety of not fitting in, the academic pressure that made me cry in bathrooms, the social hierarchies that made every day feel like navigating a minefield.
Distance transforms suffering into story. The awkwardness becomes “charming” in retrospect. The stress becomes “character-building.” The pain becomes “necessary preparation for adulthood.”
But it wasn’t charming at the time. It was hell.
“I had panic attacks before every presentation,” I told Happy. “Threw up before exams. Couldn’t sleep because I was worried about what people thought of me.”
“But you remember it fondly?”
“I remember edited highlights. My brain deleted the bad parts.”
Arash walked in. “Baba, do you miss being young?”
Loaded question from an eleven-year-old.
“I miss some things. The freedom, the energy. But I wouldn’t go back.”
“Why not?”
“Because being young meant being powerless. Adults controlled everything. I had no say in my own life.”
He thought about this. “But you tell me these are the best years of my life.”
“Do I?”
“You and Amma both say it. ‘Enjoy school while you can.'”
Happy and I looked at each other. We did say that. The same thing our parents said. The same nostalgia loop.
“Maybe we’re wrong,” I said. “Maybe we’re remembering it better than it was.”
That evening, I kept thinking about it. Pulled out my actual high school diary—pages I’d written at sixteen, seventeen. Raw, unfiltered reality.
Entry from March 2002: “Failed another math test. Abba’s going to kill me. Why am I so stupid? Everyone else understands. Just me who’s failing.”
Entry from July 2002: “Saw Sara with Imran today. Felt like dying. She doesn’t know I exist. Nobody knows I exist. I’m invisible.”
Entry from November 2002: “Presentation tomorrow. Can’t breathe. Why do they make us do this? I’d rather die than stand in front of everyone.”
This was the reality. Not the filtered photos. Not the nostalgic comments. This desperate, anxious, powerless teenager who felt like he was drowning.
But my memory had edited it all. Kept the good parts—hanging out with friends, the one teacher who believed in me, the rare moments of genuine fun. Deleted the rest—the constant anxiety, the social pressure, the feeling of being trapped in a system designed to sort us into winners and losers.
“What are you reading?” Happy asked, seeing the diary.
“Reality check. Reminding myself why I don’t actually want to go back.”
She read a few entries. “Wow. You were miserable.”
“I was. But I’ve somehow convinced myself I wasn’t.”
“Everyone does that. It’s how we survive. If we remembered how hard things actually were, we’d never move forward.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe selective amnesia was survival mechanism, not just vanity.
But it created problems too. Made the present feel harder than it needed to be. If the past was perfect, the present could never measure up.
“I think I tell Arash these are the best years because I want to believe they were for me,” I said. “But they weren’t. And maybe they’re not for him either.”
“Should we stop saying it?”
“Maybe we should tell him the truth. That some parts are good, some parts are terrible. That it’s okay to find it hard. That it gets better.”
The next morning at breakfast, Arash was quiet.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
Long silence. Then: “School is really hard sometimes.”
“Hard how?”
“Just… everyone seems to know what they’re doing except me. And I’m always worried about saying the wrong thing. And presentations make me want to throw up.”
My chest tightened. He was living exactly what I’d lived. And I’d been telling him these should be the best years.
“Beta, listen to me. School being hard doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. It’s just hard sometimes.”
“But you said these are the best years.”
“I was wrong. These are just years. Some good, some bad. Just like every other time in life.”
He looked relieved. “So it’s okay that I don’t love it?”
“More than okay. It’s honest.”
Happy added, “Your baba’s remembering school wrong. His brain is lying to him about how good it was.”
“Why?”
“Because brains do that. They keep the good memories and hide the bad ones.”
“That sounds useful.”
“It is and it isn’t,” I said. “It helps you move forward. But it makes you forget important truths.”
That night, I looked at the reunion photos again. Same pictures, different feelings.
The nostalgia was still there—real friendships had existed, good moments had happened. But I could see what the photos didn’t show now. The anxiety behind those smiles. The pressure we were all under. The performance of happiness we’d all mastered.
“Do you think we’re doing it to Arash?” Happy asked later. “Making him think his childhood has to be perfect because we’ve convinced ourselves ours was?”
“Probably. How do we stop?”
“Tell him the truth. That childhood has beauty and pain. That adolescence is awkward and difficult. That it’s okay to struggle.”
“And that it gets better?”
“Does it?”
“Different better. Adult problems instead of teenage problems. But at least we have more control.”
She laughed. “Debatable.”
But it was true. The powerlessness of adolescence was real. Being subject to other people’s rules, other people’s expectations, other people’s judgments without any real agency to change your circumstances.
We remember freedom while forgetting powerlessness. Remember friendship while forgetting hierarchy. Remember youth while forgetting helplessness.
Nostalgia preserves the best while discarding the rest—selective amnesia that makes the past rosier than it was, the present harder than it needs to be.
A week later, Arash came home excited. “Had a good day at school!”
“Yeah? What made it good?”
“I don’t know. Just was. Sometimes it’s good.”
“And sometimes it’s not?”
“Yeah. Sometimes it’s terrible. But that’s okay.”
He’d absorbed the lesson. School contained both truths—real beauty worth remembering and real pain worth never repeating.
That night, I posted a comment on the reunion photos: “Good memories, but I’m glad we grew up. Being seventeen was harder than I remember.”
A few classmates liked it. One commented: “Thank you for saying that. I thought I was the only one who felt that way.”
Others chimed in. The facade of perfect nostalgia cracked slightly. People started admitting: yes, it was fun sometimes. But also hard. Also painful. Also something we’re glad is over.
The truth emerged from under the Instagram filter.
Happy was right—we needed the selective amnesia to move forward. But we also needed honest memory to not torture ourselves or our children with false ideals.
School had beauty. Real friendships, real learning, real moments of joy. Worth remembering.
School had pain. Real anxiety, real pressure, real powerlessness. Worth acknowledging.
Both truths could exist. Nostalgia didn’t have to be lie. Just incomplete truth requiring balance.
Tonight I honor both: the good worth cherishing and the hard worth never minimizing.
The photos stay liked. The memories stay valued.
But I’m grateful to be forty, not seventeen.
And I hope Arash knows both can be true.
