Bringing common sense with a grain of salt back to parenting!
Excessive nostalgia combined with "So don't complain!" may cause dramatic sighing and door-slamming.
Mistake: Using “Back in my day” stories as a way to win arguments instead of build connection.
Consequence: “I survived dial-up internet . So don't complain about Wi-Fi.”
Reality Check: Nostalgia is a fun story, bot not a good parenting strategy — respect their world if you want them to respect yours.
Every generation swears their youth was tougher, purer, and more character-building — which probably made teens roll their eyes into another dimension ever since the late Neolithic period. The thing is, teens need empathy more than history lessons. So let's look at why "Back in my days" nostalgia often doesn't lead to connection and suspiciously resembles a competition aimed at proving that we had it harder and that they should stop complaining.
THE ISSUE
Your grandparents swore the Great Depression made them tough. Your parents muttered about how they worked three jobs to pay for college. And now here we are, telling our teenagers about dial-up internet and having to wait an entire week to watch the next episode of our favorite show.
Nostalgia is a powerful drug. It takes the uneven, awkward, often painful landscape of your teenage years and repaints it in warm, fuzzy sepia tones. Suddenly, your lack of air conditioning is transformed into “character building,” your endless bike rides into “freedom,” and the hours you spent waiting by a landline into “real connection.”
So, naturally, when your teen rolls their eyes about slow Wi-Fi, you feel compelled to remind them that once upon a time, you had to wait five full minutes just to connect — and heaven help you if someone picked up the phone mid-download. But... you survived. You endured. You were basically a pioneer, hacking your way through the wilderness of pre-Google adolescence.
The stories are great. They are fun. They are informative. However, when “back in my day” becomes a reflex, your teen doesn’t hear wisdom. They hear a lecture. They hear comparison. And above all, they hear: “Your world isn’t real. Mine was better.”
WHY PARENTS DO THIS
We're not trying to torture them (though their dramatic sighs might suggest otherwise). It often comes from good intentions:
You want them to appreciate what they have. If only they knew the pain of rewinding VHS tapes with a pencil, maybe they’d be grateful for Netflix.
You want to share your identity. Your teen wasn’t there for your “glory days,” and it feels important for them to know you once had a life outside chauffeuring them to practice.
You think they’re too soft. Your teen cries when their phone battery dips below 20%. You walked uphill in the snow — both ways! (Or so you say.)
It’s funny… to you. You think your “we drank from the garden hose” stories are charming. They think you sound like a museum exhibit.
It’s automatic. Many of us were raised hearing “When I was your age…” and now we’ve become the very people we once mocked. It's sad, actually.
The instinct to compare isn’t malicious. It’s our way of saying: I want you to know where I came from. But when nostalgia becomes a hammer, everything our teen says looks like a nail.
HOW THIS HARMS TEENS (AND US)
What happens when nnostalgia morph into proving that we had it harder and that they should stop complaining already?
It dismisses their reality. Yes, you survived without Wi-Fi. But they’re navigating a world of cyberbullying, digital permanence, and relentless academic pressure. Different doesn’t mean easier. When you constantly insist your struggles were tougher, you minimize theirs.
It shuts down conversation. If every complaint is met with “Well, when I was your age…,” why bother telling you anything? It’s not a dialogue; it’s a competition, and one they can’t win.
It turns sharing into shaming. What you intend as “funny perspective” often lands as: “You’re spoiled. You don’t appreciate anything.” That’s not exactly the bridge-building tone most parents are going for.
It creates an impossible benchmark. Your exaggerated hardships (“We had one TV, and it only worked if someone stood on the roof holding the antenna at a 45-degree angle”) make their struggles look trivial. So when they do talk, they already feel like they’re falling short.
It makes you look stuck. If your teen feels like you live permanently in the 1980s or 90s, they’ll stop inviting you into 2025. They want a parent who can meet them in the present — not one forever broadcasting reruns of their childhood.
It allienates. They may come to believe that you’ll never understand their world — so why even try?
IS THEIR WORLD DIFFERENT?
Of course it is.
Then: We had one family computer in the living room. / Now: Your teen carries a computer in their pocket, more powerful than the one that sent astronauts to the moon — and uses it to watch slime videos.
Then: If you liked a song, you had to sit by the radio with a cassette ready to record it. / Now: Teens complain that Spotify doesn’t have every remix of a niche K-pop single.
Then: You wanted to hang out with friends? You rode your bike, knocked on doors, and hoped they were home. / Now: They send 47 texts, 12 memes, and a TikTok before even leaving the house.
Their world is different. So some perspective is interesting and good. But comparison? Much less so.
AVOIDING THE TRAP
Here are some strategies to keep nostalgia under control:
Tell Stories, Not Sermons. Nostalgia works best as a story, not a moral hammer. Share your past like a Netflix special, not a lecture. (Example:“We didn’t have Netflix, so Friday night meant Blockbuster. If you didn’trewind the tape, you got fined!” Let them laugh at the absurdity. Don’t follow it with: “So stop complaining about your streaming service.”)
Find Common Ground. Instead of competing, connect the emotions. (Example:“When our phone line went down, I felt cut off from my friends. I guessit’s like when your Wi-Fi dies, and you can’t get online.”) You’re not invalidating their feelings; you’re saying, I get it — in myown way.
Be Curious About Their World. Reverse the time machine. Let them teach you. (“Show me that meme everyone’s laughing at.”, “What’s the deal with this artist you like?”) Even if you don’t fully get it, curiosity builds bridges where toxic nostalgia builds walls.
Use Nostalgia Sparingly. Treat “back in my day” stories like dessert: delightful in small portions, nauseating if served with every meal.
Focus on Values, Not Conditions. If the lesson you’re trying to share is resilience, kindness, or hard work, highlight that without requiring them to reenact the Oregon Trail. (Instead of: “We had to walk six miles to school.” you can try: “What I learned was persistence — even when things were inconvenient.”)
Share Your Flaws Too. Your stories don’t all have to be about how tough or disciplined you were. Share the embarrassing stuff. Teens love knowing you were awkward, human, and not the poster child for perfection.
Don’t Weaponize Gratitude. Yes, your kid has more than you did. But constant “you should be grateful” speeches backfire. Gratitude grows when modeled, not demanded. Show them how you’re grateful in your life now.
MISTAKES TO AVOID
Using your past to “win.” Their bad grade doesn’t need a lecture on how you studied by candlelight.
Over-romanticizing. The past wasn’t all character-building; sometimes it was just inconvenient.
Mocking their comfort. AirPods aren’t weakness; they’re just… headphones.
Forgetting context. They can’t miss Blockbuster if they’ve never known Blockbuster.
THE PAYOFF
Teenagers are desperate to be taken seriously. When your go-to move is “I had it harder,” you accidentally confirm their fear that adults don’t respect their reality. But when you share your past in a way that connects rather than competes, you model empathy. You show that human struggles — loneliness, peer pressure, fear of failure — are timeless, even if the packaging changes.
When you retire the “Back in my day” time machine — or at least stop using it as a guilt-trip tool — nice things happen:
Conversations open up instead of shutting down.
Your teen sees your stories as entertainment, not shaming.
They feel respected in their own reality.
You both build empathy for each other’s world.
And here’s the interesting twist: when your teen feels their world is respected, they’re far more likely to ask about yours. Instead of eye-rolls, you get curiosity. Instead of defensiveness, you get dialogue. So someday, they might even want to hear about the time you taped songs off the radio — not because you forced the story on them, but because they asked.
© Kristijan Musek Lešnik, 2025
