Reframing Nostalgia – Something Worth Missing
Every February and March, as conference championship season unfolds across the country, I find myself pulled back in time.
This time of year, my computer is working overtime with the number of tabs open. The livestreams are playing, the psych sheets are open, and results pages are constantly being refreshed. Team buses are pulling up to natatoriums that will, for five or six days, feel like the center of the universe. And suddenly, without warning, I’m not sitting at my laptop anymore: I’m standing directly behind the blocks again.
Conference championships have a rhythm that never really leaves you. The smell of chlorine hanging heavy in the air and the sound of paper rustling as heat sheets become cheering batons. The controlled chaos of prelims and the electricity of finals. The way the minutes before your race feel like both the longest and shortest moments of your life.
When I was swimming, conference season meant everything. It was where the hard work of early mornings and late nights came to shine. It was where teammates became your family and support system all in one. It was where exhaustion and belief coexisted in a way that only athletes can truly understand.
This year, and every year, watching championships from the outside, I began to feel those same feelings, but in a different way. For a moment, I missed it all so deeply that it almost hurt. I missed the nerves of waiting behind the block. I missed the squeeze of my teammates’ hands giving me one last good-luck wish. I missed the feeling of walking back to the bleachers after a best time, knowing you had delivered not just for yourself, but for your team.
Nostalgia can be sneaky like that. It creeps in and makes you wonder if you appreciated the moments enough while you were living in them. It makes you question if you would have handled situations differently and whether you knew then how special it really was. As I sat and watched with these feelings, something shifted.
Instead of wishing I could go back and relive it all, I started feeling overwhelmingly grateful that I ever got to experience it at all. Because not everyone gets to know what it feels like to taper for something that big. Not everyone gets to stand shoulder to shoulder with their teammates, arms linked, with voices hoarse from cheering. Not everyone gets to race for something bigger than themselves.
The ache of missing it isn’t a sign that something is lacking in the present. It’s proof that what we experienced was meaningful.
It’s easy, especially in sport, to be hyperfocused on what’s next. The next race. The next meet. The next cut. Even in “post-swimming life,” there’s a tendency to look forward; to the next job, the next project, the next milestone.
Conference championship season has a way of inviting us retired swimmers back, and what a gift that is.
As former athletes, we sometimes struggle with the transition away from competition. The structure disappears. The nerves fade. The identity shifts. And when championship season rolls around, it can reopen that space and bring back memories with intense emotions, without warning.
But maybe instead of trying to ignore the nostalgia, we can reframe it. What if missing it is simply evidence of how lucky we were? Lucky to be pushed beyond what we thought we could handle. Lucky to learn how to perform under pressure. Lucky to experience the kind of team unity that most workplaces spend years trying to manufacture. Lucky to “fail” publicly and learn how to grow from it. Lucky to succeed and understand the work it takes to get there.
When I think back to my conference championship days, the memories that surface are rarely times or places. It’s the bus rides. The inside jokes. The quiet moments in the warm-down pool, leaning on teammates.
To the athletes who just finished their final conference meet: let yourself feel whatever comes up. Pride. Relief. Sadness. Gratitude. There is no right or wrong way to feel.
To the underclassmen already thinking about next year: soak it in. Even the nerves. Even the fatigue. One day you will miss those things too.
And to the former swimmer watching from afar, whether it’s been one year or twenty, know that the tightness in your chest when the walkout music starts is not a sign that you’re stuck in the past. It’s a reminder that you were part of something extraordinary.
This season, instead of wishing I were back on deck, I’m choosing to feel thankful.
Thankful that I got to dive in.
Thankful that I got to belong.
Thankful that I have experienced something worth missing.
