Well, That Happened

On nostalgia, aging millennials and rising to the challenge of the moment

One of the surest signs of aging is starting to enjoy music from your youth that you hated at the time. The other night, a few bourbons in, I found myself meandering down memory lane, revisiting the sounds of my younger years. Not just the music I loved at the time—mostly heavy metal—but also the top 40s hits of the 2000s and early 2010s: pop punk, hip hop, soft rock, and especially the indie dance-pop craze of the early 2010s. That’s when I stumbled upon the song Safe and Sound by Capital Cities, and I was struck with the bittersweet ache of nostalgia.

The song feels timeless and yet oddly distant. Released in 2013, it somehow seems like it belongs to a much earlier era, as if it’s aged twice as fast for all that’s happened since. The song, with its upbeat rhythm and synth horn section, embodies the hallmarks of its time: bright colors, a danceable beat, and a sense of unbridled optimism. The music video remains iconic, blending dancers from different eras—from the 1910s to the present—coming together in a dazzling display of dance styles, clothing aesthetics, and film techniques. Even today, it’s a feast for the eyes that still holds up.

Everyone in the video dances together, out of time but united by the same rhythm, their differences melting away in celebration of dance itself. It felt, in a way, like Francis Fukuyama's End of History translated into pop culture and dance. History’s conflicts were behind us, and now we were free to enjoy the party, reveling in a shared optimism.

But then the song ends, its joyful synths and rhythm replaced by silence. My screen fades to black, leaving only the replay button—a seeming invitation to indulge in the simulacrum of reliving my youth on loop. I close full-screen mode and glance down at the comments. "I wish I could go back," one commentor wrote. "This was the best time to be alive," said another. Clearly, I wasn’t the only thirty-something caught in this same ritual.

When did I get old? Or more accurately, where did my youth go? It feels like only yesterday this song was topping the charts, and I was just as full of hope as the era seemed to be. Listening to it now, I’m overwhelmed by nostalgia. But I don’t feel nostalgic in the way the phenomenon is commonly described in pop culture as a fond recollection of happy memories, but in the classical sense of the word. The term comes from the Greek words “Nostos" meaning "return home" or "homecoming” and "Algos" which means "pain" or "suffering." Together, nostalgia originally referred to the pain or longing one feels for home, or homesickness. The pain of loss.

This song feels symbolic of the broken promises of a future we thought we’d have—a millennial dream deferred. It’s no wonder the song frequently accompanies memes capturing the bittersweet sting of nostalgia. What once seemed hopeful and triumphant now feels hopelessly naïve.

Safe and Sound emerged at the tail end of that fleeting "end of history" moment—the early 2010s, the second Obama term. It was a time when the mood felt triumphant, as though the major problems of the world had been solved, leaving only the finer details to work out. That would be our legacy as millennials. We were the inheritors of the legacy of the ones who won WWII, the social and polit I'mical change of the 60s and the long march of progress. Like the dancers in the video, we believed we were living in a post-racial, post-political world. Sure, challenges remained, but look how far we’d come! We had the blueprint, we merely needed to follow through. Those early 2010s years seemed to mark the millennial generation’s coming-of-age, the moment we were ready to take the stage.

The early 2010s felt like the culmination of a millennial dream that began in the 1990s, a time when optimism wasn’t just a mood but a defining characteristic of the era. Growing up in the '90s, we were the generation of "gifted kids," showered with praise and promises that we were destined to change the world. We were told we were special, that we would inherit a brighter future where our talents and creativity would flourish. The world seemed to echo that sentiment, with the booming economy, the rise of the internet, and a sense of limitless possibilities. By the time we entered adulthood, it felt like we would preside over a new golden age. It was an era of unity and innovation, where even the simplest things—like chasing virtual Pokémon in the real world—felt like the embodiment of progress and connection.

But things didn’t turn out that way. Within a few short years, that illusion shattered. The culture wars intensified, and new crises emerged. Yet for a brief window, from around 2009 to 2015, it genuinely felt like the future was bright—and that we were the ones who’d make it so. What now feels stale or embarrassingly juvenile about millennial culture once felt fresh, cutting-edge, and full of promise.

Where did it all go wrong? If you’ll indulge another cliché of the self-pitying millennial, it sometimes feels like the deck was stacked against us from the start. An unattributed quote reads, "Millennials saw 2,000 people die on live TV when they were kids, and it all went downhill from there." Of course, this refers to 9/11, an event that shaped our childhoods and defined the trajectory of our lives. Our coming-of-age years were marked by crisis after crisis: the war in Iraq, the 2008 financial crash just as we were finishing school or entering the workforce, the divisive 2016 presidential election that tore apart friendships and families, and Covid-19, which derailed the milestones of adulthood—marriage, children, and stability.

Now, many of us find ourselves in our 30s and 40s, and the boundless potential we once believed in feels like an unobtainable dream. Instead of building the brighter future we were promised, we’re stuck navigating a world of broken dreams: unaffordable housing, crushing debt, and careers that often feel like dead ends. The "gifted kids" who were supposed to change the world are now exhausted adults, haunted by the gulf between what was promised and what has come to pass. Nostalgia has become a refuge, a longing for simpler times when the future still seemed open to us. Meanwhile, a new generation has taken the stage, leaving us behind, wondering not just what happened to our potential but to our youth itself.

Dudley Newright

recently wrote a piece entitled "Millennial Snot," a biting article that captures how many of our generational quirks have soured with time. What once felt fresh—our snark, pop culture obsession, and self-assured confidence to change the world—now seems juvenile, even embarrassing. Newright paints us as overgrown children clinging to affectations that haven’t aged well: appeals to academic credentials that turned out to have little real-world value, compound swears designed to be edgy without crossing any lines, and a fetishization of science and academia that rarely ventures beyond references to Schrödinger’s cat or The Great Gatsby. It’s as if our generation’s intellectualism got stuck at the “gifted kid” phase, more about showing off than showing depth.

And then there’s our language, once seen as clever and cutting. Snarky clapbacks and Joss Whedon-style banter that dominated our humor now seem tired, their edges dulled by overuse. We’re still waiting for that perfect “West Wing”-style moment to deliver a rousing speech that will change everything if only people would listen. Nerd culture, which we elevated to mainstream status, has become its own kind of arrested development, as if embracing youth culture could make up for the adult milestones so many of us missed. Marriage, homeownership, children—these rites of passage have slipped through the cracks of financial instability and cultural shifts, leaving many of us grasping at the trappings of our youth for comfort. Yet beneath the irony and self-deprecation, there’s a sadness that lingers—a sense that we’re not just clinging to youth for its own sake, but because the world didn’t turn out the way we were promised. As if we could recapture our youth, we could go back to the way things used to be. Maybe we never outgrew our optimism, and now it’s twisted into a bitter self-parody, snark filling the cracks where hope once lived.

Many such cases!

I’m not sure how much I even buy into the concept of generations. After all, this shared experience of uncertainty and upheaval isn’t exclusive to Millennials—it’s something we’re all working through right now. The challenges we face, from societal deracination to institutional collapse, transcend generational lines. That having been said, there’s something compelling about the idea of generational identity. It provides a framework to understand the cultural, historical, and social forces that shape us at different points in time.

To better understand this concept, it’s worth revisiting the work of Neil Howe and William Strauss, the authors who originally coined the term “Millennial.” They introduced the term in their influential book The Fourth Turning (1997), which presents a theory of history as a cycle of generational archetypes and societal moods. According to Howe and Strauss, each generation is shaped by the unique conditions of their formative years, which influence how they respond to and shape the major crises and transitions of their time. This idea helps explain not just the Millennial experience, but the ways in which generational cohorts collectively interact with and influence the world around them.

Neil Howe’s concept of The Fourth Turning, developed with William Strauss in their book of the same name, centers on the idea that history unfolds in recurring cycles of approximately 80-100 years, divided into four generational “turnings.” Each turning represents a distinct societal mood and set of priorities: a High (a period of rebuilding and collective confidence), an Awakening (an era of spiritual upheaval and questioning), an Unraveling (a time of individualism and institutional decline), and finally, a Crisis (a decisive period of upheaval and change). These cycles are shaped by generational archetypes, each defined by the era they grow up in and how they, in turn, shape the world as they age.

According to Howe, there are four generational archetypes that repeat across these cycles: Heroes, Artists, Prophets, and Nomads. These archetypes are formed by the societal mood during their formative years. For instance, Heroes (like Millennials) are born during an Unraveling, grow up in a time of individualism, and come of age during a Crisis, positioning them as a generation focused on rebuilding and collective action. Prophets (like Boomers), raised during a High, grow up in a secure and confident society, leading them to challenge norms during an Awakening and eventually serve as moralistic leaders during a Crisis. Nomads (like Generation X) grow up in an Unraveling, marked by societal neglect and skepticism, making them pragmatic and tough as adults. Artists (like Gen Z) are born during a Crisis and grow up in a period of rebuilding, creating a focus on stability and adaptability in their adulthood.

The interplay between these archetypes drives the larger cycles of history. Each generation’s experiences in their youth shape their worldview, influencing how they react to societal challenges and how they interact with other generational cohorts. This dynamic creates a rhythm of tension and renewal, with each turning paving the way for the next. As one generation ascends to leadership and another rises to adulthood, their collective values and actions reshape society, setting the stage for the next cycle.

I’m not sure how much I fully buy into Strauss and Howe’s generational theory. After all, it’s easy to cherry-pick data to fit a narrative, and the theory has its share of critics. But one thing is undeniable: we are living through a time of profound crisis. It feels like everything is unraveling at once. Social bonds are fraying, institutions are faltering, and conflict—whether through war, political division, or cultural strife—seems omnipresent. It can feel overwhelming to live but this kind of chaos is exactly what defines an era. Crises are the crucibles that shape history, and we find ourselves in the midst of one now.

In times like these, we have no choice but to act and rise to the occasion. I’m reminded of a passage from The Lord of the Rings where Frodo, burdened by the weight of the One Ring, confides in Gandalf about his despair. Frodo wishes the burden hadn’t fallen to him, that he didn’t have to live through such dark times. Gandalf’s response captures a universal truth:

Frodo: “I wish it need not have happened in my time.”
Gandalf: “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

Living in the modern day often feels like carrying a similar burden. It’s grappling with the loss of what you thought your life would be while shouldering the responsibility of rebuilding a fractured world. And yet, that’s okay. It’s an insurmountable task only if we choose not to rise to it. This is our test—the challenge that will shape us into who we need to be. To rise as heroes, not in the grandiose sense, but as the ones willing to bear the weight of rebuilding. To marry the idealism and optimism of our youth with the pragmatism forged by hardship and loss. To turn our pain into resilience and use it to create a better world—not just for ourselves, but for the generations to come.