When you hear the word nostalgia, you might think of something happy, maybe because of the positive emotions that surface when you’re reminded of something from the past. It could be food or snacks from childhood, a comic book, or an old TV show you used to watch as a kid. I used to think of it that way too. I use the word nostalgia a lot, even in different languages.

In Japan, we say natsukashii. But Japanese is hard to translate—there’s this unspoken understanding among us, a quiet agreement in meaning that doesn’t quite carry over into other languages. Our art, our work, our words—they’re layered. Natsukashii is generally translated as “nostalgic,” or “dear to the heart.” But that doesn’t quite capture it.

The English word nostalgia comes from the Greek:
“Nostos” (νόστος) – homecoming or return
“Algos” (ἄλγος) – pain or ache

Its direct translation is “the pain of wanting to return home.” The term was coined in 1688 by a Swiss medical student, Johannes Hofer, to describe the psychological longing soldiers felt when far from home. At the time, it was considered a medical condition—homesickness. Now, it’s used more broadly to describe that bittersweet yearning for the past.

As a literary and language nerd, I knew I’d write about it someday—but only when I truly experienced it. Only when I could finally use the term correctly, while putting my feelings into words.

Today, let me try.

I went back to my hometown after a long time. It was the holidays, and everyone else was going home. It’s been ages. Home—that’s what I still call it, even if it’s no longer the same. That’s where I grew up. That’s where I spent my entire childhood. It’s the place where I began learning, where I first started introducing myself to the world—and where the world first introduced itself to me.

Today, I was at the church in my hometown. Suddenly, all of my memories as a little girl came flooding back. And for the first time in my life, I thought—maybe I can finally use the word nostalgia correctly. Because this? This was truly the pain of wanting to return home. And it hurt even more because the home I missed… wasn’t really there anymore.

I asked myself, Who am I kidding? Why am I even here? What am I trying to achieve, or prove to myself, by coming back?

I had only planned to visit the church. But since it’s near my old school, I saw the campus where I studied. I remembered my classmates—their family businesses, the properties they owned. I caught myself saying, Oh, that building belongs to so-and-so, like I used to when I lived there. I couldn’t help it. It’s been a while.

Along with those buildings came memories long buried. I may not remember every detail, but I could feel them—like I was still in high school.

Now I live in the city—a place that once felt impossibly far away. But now that I’m here, back in this town, everything feels smaller. The place has changed. And so have I.

This town used to be my Bethlehem. But now, instead of comfort, it reminded me of pain from old wounds. The feeling is so warm, I can almost feel it burning on my skin.

Still, it’s a beautiful kind of pain. Because even though not everything was good, I can come back to this place and remember how far I’ve come.