Nostalgia Is Not What It Used to Be
The only constant is change. We cling to the past because the present rushes forward too quickly, leaving us grasping at familiar comforts that slip away one by one. Nostalgia comforts us, yet it also reminds us of impermanence. What we loved as children, or even last year, may vanish—replaced, reformulated, or discontinued entirely. And in that loss, we glimpse a deeper truth: the things that truly endure are rarely the ones we can buy.
History offers extravagant examples. It is said that Cleopatra, the last Pharaoh of Egypt, dissolved the largest pearl known in antiquity in a cup of vinegar and drank it as the costliest toast in history. The story is almost certainly embellished—pearls do not dissolve so neatly—but that should never spoil a good tale. It speaks to excess, to the fleeting thrill of destroying something priceless for a gesture. Compare that to Julius Caesar, whose conquests of Spain, Gaul, and beyond plundered wealth on a scale that fed Rome for centuries. Estimates place his fortune at the equivalent of $5–10 trillion in today’s dollars. Yet even Caesar’s riches were temporary. Empires rise and fall; fortunes are spent or seized. No individual has lived two thousand years—save perhaps some mould or ancient trees. Still, we study those distant lives because they echo in our own.
Today, we wonder what Caesar might make of our era. How many rockets would he command? Would he pursue Full Self-Driving, Neuralink, or Optimus robots? Might he bore tunnels beneath nations rather than march legions across them? Elon Musk’s ambitions suggest that even Caesar’s wealth could be surpassed in the coming decade through innovation rather than conquest. The wheel of fortune turns. What was unimaginable yesterday becomes commonplace tomorrow.
Yet for most of us, nostalgia strikes closer to home. Today I learned that Nestlé’s single-serve Golden Rough chocolates—those smooth milk chocolate discs studded with roasted coconut—have quietly vanished from major supermarket shelves. I did not notice at first because I rarely bought them. That is the nature of nostalgia: it ambushes us with things we took for granted. Other discontinued Australian sweets follow the same pattern—Fantales with their trivia wrappers, the dense original Milo bars, Sunnyboys icy poles in their pyramid packs, or the flaky Arnott’s Lattice biscuits. Each disappearance chips away at childhood memories and simple rituals. We mourn them not just for the taste, but for the era they represented: milk bars, summer holidays, and a slower pace where such small pleasures felt abundant.
A lot of what matters to me matters little to others. Nobody else cares that my uncle was once humiliated by a politician who left him exposed after forgetting his name. The personal slights and quiet heartaches stay with us while the world moves on. In the same way, my idea of the costliest drink ever made would not be Cleopatra’s pearl vinegar, but a simple milkshake—kept just out of reach of my little cousins, its joy priceless precisely because it is shared sparingly and savoured fully. It costs little in money but everything in the moment.
If all my wealth were in Bitcoin, I might still withdraw a little for a self-driving car or some other modern wonder. We are richer than Croesus in ways he could scarcely imagine—blessed with technology, mobility, and knowledge that ancient kings would envy. Yet Croesus himself died a lesson in humility, his vast riches proving no shield against fate. True riches lie elsewhere. I am richer than Croesus, blessed by God, and in the end, nothing else matters. The faith that sustained Job through loss, or the Prodigal Son’s return, or Anna the prophetess waiting faithfully—these transcend trends, discontinued lollies, and trillion-dollar ledgers.
Nostalgia is not what it used to be because nothing is. Change is relentless. Factories retool, recipes are “improved,” and entire categories of sweets disappear while new gadgets arrive. We can campaign for revivals or recreate approximations at home, but the original moment is gone. What remains is gratitude for what was, contentment with what is, and hope for what comes next. The milkshake tastes sweeter when you remember it may not last forever. The rocket launches higher when you recall the emperors who never left the ground. And the soul finds peace when it anchors not in the transient, but in the eternal.
In a world obsessed with novelty and disruption, perhaps the most radical act is to cherish the ordinary while it lasts—and to thank the One who provides both the pearls and the vinegar, the conquests and the quiet joys. Nostalgia, rightly ordered, points us homeward.
