The Past Is a Closed Door: You Return, But Nothing Stays the Same - Gita on Nostalgia

We all have a memory—one moment, one place—that we return to when life gets heavy. It’s a kind of safe haven in our minds, a place where everything seemed simpler, better even. Whether it’s a childhood home, a lost friendship, or a season of life that feels like it had meaning, we’re all guilty of idealizing the past. But here’s the hard truth that few are willing to acknowledge: the past is a door that’s been closed for a reason. You may find yourself trying to pry it open, to relive what was, but the more you try, the less it feels like it once did. The ancient wisdom of the Bhagavad Gita offers something crucial here, something that cuts through the fog of nostalgia. It tells us that attachment to the past—this desperate longing for things that can’t be reclaimed—is a trap. It’s a trap because it’s built on the illusion that we can somehow recover what we’ve lost. The Gita doesn’t play along with this illusion. It acknowledges that everything changes, and not just passively but as a law of nature. To resist this change is to resist life itself. And it’s in this acceptance of impermanence that real freedom begins.


Nostalgia, as harmless as it feels, can be a heavy burden. It keeps us tethered to something that no longer exists. The places we remember, the people we cherish, the versions of ourselves we were—they’re all gone. Yet, we constantly try to pull them back, to reframe the past as a golden era that we somehow lost our way from. The more we do this, the more we avoid confronting the present. This obsession with the “good old days” becomes a barrier, a blind spot, keeping us from seeing the richness and possibility of what’s in front of us right now.
The Gita speaks to this very condition. Krishna, in his conversation with Arjuna, urges him to focus on the present task at hand, to not be distracted by the ghosts of past victories or failures. This isn’t a call to forget the past, but a reminder that holding on to it too tightly—wishing it was still here, wishing things were still how they were—will paralyze you. The more you try to recreate those moments, the more you lose sight of who you are now. You can’t grow in a past that doesn’t exist anymore.


At the heart of nostalgia is the belief in permanence. We assume that because something was good, it was always good, that it will always have the same value. But that’s a mistake. Nothing stays the same. Everything shifts, including us. The people we were ten years ago are not the people we are today. The places that shaped us are not the same either. To expect the past to remain unchanged is to misunderstand life itself. Life doesn’t pause; it moves. It’s in constant flux. The Gita teaches us that this impermanence isn’t something to be feared or resisted. It’s part of the grand design, a necessary part of our evolution as individuals and as a collective.


Here’s the paradox: real freedom comes when we let go of our attachment to the past. When we stop chasing what’s already gone, we free ourselves to embrace what is here, in front of us, in the present moment. And this isn’t just about getting over old hurts or lost opportunities. It’s about freeing ourselves from the suffocating grip of “how things were.” It’s about understanding that life—like the seasons—moves forward. Holding on to what no longer serves us only keeps us from experiencing what’s waiting to unfold.
This idea doesn’t just come from the Gita. It’s in the core of human wisdom. The more we try to hold on to a time or place that no longer exists, the more we lose the ability to experience what’s truly here. Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting; it means understanding that everything—relationships, experiences, even ourselves—is meant to change. It means trusting that the best things in life can’t be held onto; they’re meant to evolve, to become something different, and perhaps even more beautiful than what they once were.


The Gita isn’t asking us to forget the past or to disregard the lessons it gave us. Rather, it’s urging us to recognize that what’s gone is gone. And while it’s tempting to look back and wish for a return to what was, we’re reminded that the past was never the permanent state we thought it was. It was fleeting then, and it’s fleeting now. What we do have, and what we can shape, is today.
This doesn’t mean that every moment will feel magical or perfect—it won’t. But what it does mean is that there’s value in the present, even in its messiness, its imperfection. The past can be a teacher, but it can never be a home. We live here, in this moment, and the more we accept that, the more we can live fully. No matter how much we wish we could revisit the past, the reality is that it’s behind us for a reason. And that reason isn’t to haunt us, but to encourage us to grow into who we’re meant to be now.

So, what do we do with all this nostalgia? The truth is, we can still honor it, but we can’t hold onto it. The past will never be the way we remember it. It’s a closed door, and that’s okay. We don’t need to keep trying to pry it open. The real beauty lies in the present—what we can create now, what we can become, how we can learn from what’s come before without letting it steal the joy of what’s here now. Nostalgia will always tug at us, but if we can let go of the illusion that the past was better, we can start to see the brilliance of what we have today. And in doing so, we’ll finally understand what Krishna meant: to live fully is to let go, to embrace the fleeting, and to trust that the next chapter will always be worth writing.