Attending the concert at Fenway Park last summer was supposed to be nothing but pure excitement. Seeing Billy Joel perform live had been a dream of mine for ages, especially after I added it to my bucket list following my successful recovery from breast cancer in early 2014. I was determined to see Billy live, and I was convinced it would be an incredible experience.
But things didn’t go exactly as planned. Sure, the concert was fantastic, but it also sparked some unexpected feelings. Music has a magical way of transporting us through time, and on that warm summer night, Billy’s voice whisked me back to my childhood—specifically, to that Pepto-pink room where I used to listen to my mother (who passed away nearly 13 years ago) belting out “Just the Way You Are.” It brought back memories of a family life and an era that felt like a different world.
However, what really struck me was Billy himself. As I watched the video screens show images of his younger self, the contrast was jarring. The vibrant young man with the flowing dark hair and bright eyes I remembered from album covers was now a bald guy with a gray goatee at the piano. It made me think, “When did Billy get so old?” which inevitably led to the even bigger question: “When did I get so old?”
Growing up in New York during the ’70s and ’80s, Billy’s music was the soundtrack of my formative years. By the time I was ten, I could sing along to “Scenes From an Italian Restaurant” with pride, and in my teens, I would lie on my sister’s bed listening to “Vienna” from The Stranger over and over. It felt like Billy was speaking directly to me when he urged, “slow down, you crazy child.” But I didn’t want to slow down; I was eager to find my own “Vienna,” whatever that meant. I craved adulthood.
Well, here I am—46 and a mother of two—and while I’m grateful to be alive, I’m increasingly confronted with the sudden stops that time demands of us. Each “STOP” moment serves as a reminder of my journey and the time that has passed.
Time is a curious thing. When I try to articulate what it means, I’m met with clichés and song lyrics that echo in my mind:
- In the blink of an eye.
- Time flies.
- Time keeps on slipping into the future.
- Time is on my side.
(And maybe Mick Jagger is onto something; he still looks good and is rocking it at 71.)
What intrigues me more is the emotional response tied to these moments—a bittersweet ache that I eventually labeled as nostalgia. I’ve felt it not only at Billy Joel concerts but in various places, like driving down Commonwealth Avenue near my alma mater, Boston University. After years of casual drives, I suddenly noticed the significant distance, not in miles but in years, between the college student I once was and the mother and cancer survivor I am today. It struck me again during a lunch with a friend at a restaurant where I once worked in my twenties, where I was hit by the realization that the attractive young server could very well be my son.
Nostalgia is a fascinating concept. Coined by German scholar Johannes Hofer, it originally described a form of homesickness among soldiers. Over time, it evolved to reflect a wistful longing for the past, which explains why it can catch us off guard, just like at the concert. When I embrace my past, it often feels different. Teaching my kids my favorite songs from Run-D.M.C. or re-watching shows from my childhood like Scooby Doo or The Brady Bunch makes me feel connected to those moments instead of homesick.
Of course, I’d love to revisit that Pepto-pink room and see my mother again, but I don’t yearn to go back to those complicated days of my youth. At 46, I’m more comfortable with who I am and what fulfills me than ever before.
So perhaps this is my “Vienna”—the realization that my present is rich and rewarding, right here, right now.