A good pain

“Good” pain? Those two words hardly seem to fit together in one sentence.

To me, though, the phrase means a pain that moves you toward something good. Pain itself may be unpleasant, but sometimes it lets you know: Hey, you’re alive. The knots are being worked out. You’re outgrowing your old wardrobe—in a good way.

You can never really understand the idea of “good pain” until you experience it.

That’s what I think nostalgia really is—when you remember something that made you happy once, and maybe you’re not less happy now, but you can’t help but feel a pang of loss for the past anyway. I’m not old enough to be full of bitter “back in my day”s, but I do get nostalgic about some things.

Like the old Spyro: the Dragon video games.

Pillow forts and sibling sleepovers.

Falling asleep (or pretending to) on the couch while The Two Towers played in the background, so my dad would carry me upstairs.

Lockers with combinations, and new binder dividers.

Winning show choir competitions.

DDR.

Losing a tooth during a school day, like a boss.

The timid footfalls of my dog Robbie, coming up the stairs to warm his tiny self under my blankets.

Fifth grade, when I thought all poetry writing had to be some seriously melancholy venture, and thoroughly hated the experience.

I laugh at my past self a lot—even at the version of me from this morning, who slept a full two and a half hours later than I usually do, just because I didn’t want to climb off of my loft bed. There are some things I might say to me, if I ever went back.

But I wouldn’t ask to go back, I don’t think. I’ve never been big on the time travel thing, unless we’re talking Back to the Future (I remember a time before I owned the DVDs when I would drop everything to watch all three movies every time there was a marathon on TV). And I would never trade my memories for the ability not to miss them.

It’s enough sometimes to just remember, even if it hurts a little. It’s a good pain.