At 42, I find myself often caught in a quiet, persistent thought: I wish I was 20 years younger. It’s not an unusual yearning, I know. The desire to rewind time is one of the most human longings there is. But even as I say it, I understand how impossible it is. Time doesn’t play favorites, and it never pauses or rewinds for anyone. And even if, by some miracle, I could go back, I wonder—would I really have done things any differently, knowing only what I knew then?

There’s something beautifully tragic about this dilemma. We often fantasize about changing the past, assuming it would grant us some perfect version of today. But back then, we made the choices we could with the knowledge and experiences we had. Would a younger version of me have chosen a different career? Loved differently? Lived more fully? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it all happened exactly as it was meant to—messy, beautiful, confusing, enlightening. All of it weaving the fabric of who I am today.

Sometimes I think nature knew what it was doing when it gave us memory. Memory is its own form of time travel. A soft rebellion against the cold finality of time. While we can’t physically return, we can close our eyes and be right back in that first love, that early morning with a newborn, that warm evening with our parents when they were younger and full of stories. Our minds carry time not as a clock but as a scrapbook, carefully preserved and accessed when we need it most.

But memory is more than just nostalgia. It’s a reminder of what matters most. That longing for youth isn’t just about a younger body or fewer wrinkles. It’s about the passions we felt, the people we held close, the wonder of a world that was still new to us. It’s the wish to fall in love again—truly, deeply, irrationally. To make our first big decisions, to take bold chances, to say yes to things we were too scared to try. It’s the desire to sit across from our parents and not worry about time running out. It’s the ache to relive just one more day with the ones who left too soon.

Perhaps this yearning is universal for a reason. Maybe it’s not just some sad indulgence of the mind. Maybe it’s part of how we evolve—not just biologically but emotionally and spiritually. In my own culture, this idea is carried into beliefs about rebirth, where we return in a new form, to live new versions of old truths, to start again with different parents, different friends, different challenges. Maybe that’s how nature keeps giving us second chances.

Still, even if time travel were possible, there’s no guarantee we’d end up happier. We might lose everything we now hold dear. The people who shaped us in our 30s and 40s wouldn’t exist in our lives. The lessons we learned through heartbreak and resilience wouldn’t yet be known to us. Would we be better off, or worse? And more importantly, why does it matter, when the present is all we really have?

Maybe the better question isn’t how to return to being 22, but how do I want to feel when I’m 62? What would I wish I had done in these very years I’m living now? If I miss the energy and hopefulness of my youth, how can I recreate those feelings now? What can I learn today that will make the next 20 years more meaningful, not in spite of my age, but because of it?

Instead of mourning what’s behind, maybe I can use that ache to shape what’s ahead. Maybe it’s not about recapturing my past, but about honoring it—by making better choices now, by showing more love, by taking more risks, by spending more time with the people who matter. Maybe memory isn’t just for nostalgia, but for wisdom.

I don’t have all the answers. I’m far from perfect. But I do wonder. And maybe that wonder is enough to keep me moving forward—with a little more intention, a little more grace, and a deeper understanding of what really matters in the end.

Let the past be your teacher, not your anchor. The next 20 years are waiting.