In an age of constant progress, I find myself retreating to the past. The world’s demands feel lighter when I’m watching old shows from the 2000s. My film camera gives me the satisfaction of simpler moments in a way my iPhone can’t. Photos of “how things used to be” fill me with a sense of calm. And I know I’m not the only one in Gen Z who feels this way. Our generation may be the most nostalgic yet; 40% of Gen Z longs for eras we never lived through, while 70% regularly consumes media from earlier decades. Why is nostalgia so pervasive for us?

We have more advanced technology, more global connectivity, and more options than any generation before. Yet we reach for things like film cameras and binge old episodes of Gilmore Girls or Wizards of Waverly Place. We wear Y2K fashion and embrace aesthetics that make the early 2000s feel “vintage.” Brands cater to us with marketing filled with “vintage” and “nostalgic” imagery because they know it resonates. Why?

Nostalgia can act as a form of self-care, with familiar, pleasant activities activating the brain’s reward centers. For Gen Z, turning to early 2000s media offers that familiarity in a time when the present feels increasingly uncertain. There’s comfort in returning to shows like Gilmore Girls, Harry Potter, and Friends, where you know exactly what to expect—every character’s quirks, every predictable conflict. While these shows may deal with drama, the problems feel contained, almost trivial, compared to the daunting global crises Gen Z faces today. Watching exaggerated portrayals of teenage struggle can feel reassuring, a reminder of when issues were simpler and more manageable. However, with nostalgia often comes romanticization, leading to phrases like, “I was born in the wrong generation.” While this sentiment is understandable, it’s not unique to Gen Z. Every generation looks back longingly on what feels like a simpler, freer time, often as they transition into adulthood and face new responsibilities. Millennials felt a similar yearning for a world they hadn’t lived through—cue songs like Sandi Thom’s “I Wish I Was a Punk Rocker” with its idealized view of earlier eras. It’s human nature to crave those carefree years, even if each “simpler time” had its own set of challenges. The early 2000s were iconic, but like any other decade, they weren’t free of global issues.

Part of nostalgia, maybe, is the sheer speed and exposure of modern life. We can experience the world with a scroll or a swipe, which brings endless opportunities but also relentless comparisons. Social media shows us constant highlights, making it easy to feel that “yesterday” was brighter than today.

Documenting every moment is both a gift and a burden: we can cherish memories, yet we constantly measure them against the curated snapshots of others.

Unlike previous generations, Gen Z faces the additional pressure of presenting a polished, marketable version of ourselves on social media—whether we’re making friends, dating, applying to schools, or seeking jobs. This need to “sell” ourselves can make even meaningful moments feel lacklustre if they don’t measure up to the endless parade of life’s “best” scenes. It’s no surprise that Gen Z reports higher levels of stress, anxiety, and depression than previous generations.

It wasn’t always this way. In the 70s, 80s, 90s, and early 2000s, people weren’t flooded with images of past decades or perpetual comparisons. They simply lived each moment, free from the looming shadow of a virtual audience. They had more room to savour the uniqueness of their present without the fear of falling short. 

But social media is only part of the equation. For much of Gen Z, crucial moments of adolescence were overshadowed or stolen by a global pandemic. In addition, we face a housing crisis, inflation, and global warfare playing out on our screens, amplifying the weight of these challenges. Our generation stands at the intersection of hyper-individualism and a deep commitment to social justice, which creates a unique tension: while we’re encouraged to craft distinct personal identities online, we’re also more aware than ever of the world’s problems, from systemic inequalities to environmental crises.

This awareness is intensified by the ways history and current events are documented and shared with us. Through our phones, we have access to images, testimonies, and news of injustices across the world in real-time. The past isn’t a distant memory—it’s alive in our feeds, in stories that spotlight both the struggles and victories of previous generations.

We inherit these documented memories and feel their weight, seeing not only how the world once was but also how much remains unchanged. With resources and platforms that allow us to organize and mobilize, we often feel both empowered and pressured to fix wrong things and to advocate for a better future.

Maybe nostalgia isn’t just an escape; it’s a response to what’s missing. While we’re surrounded by options and technology that connect us more than ever, this hyper-connected world can also feel fragmented and detached. With everything seemingly for sale, it’s difficult to find meaning in what’s organic and real. Capitalism’s endless drive for progress and consumption can make our lives feel driven by metrics, achievements, and aesthetics, rather than genuine connection or fulfillment. In revisiting the past, we find a grounding sense of authenticity—a bridge between eras that gives us a safe space to recharge and a glimpse of life outside the pressures of the modern world. For Gen Z, nostalgia offers a way to cope with today’s complex pressures and to hold onto a vision of simpler times. It’s no surprise, then, that even in an age of endless innovation, the past still feels like home.