S4 Episode 4: Nostalgia - Are You Missing the Past or Missing Yourself?

Nostalgia can sneak up on you with an old song, a familiar smell, or a drive through a neighborhood you have not seen in years, and suddenly you are not fully in the present anymore. We sit with that exact feeling, the strange mix of comfort and sadness, and name what is really happening: nostalgia is not just memory, it is memory with meaning and longing attached.

Join me on The Couch as I walk through the psychology of nostalgia and why it can feel so powerful. Memory is selective and emotionally shaped, which means the past can start to “glow” in ways it never actually did in real life. That is how we end up comparing an unfinished, cluttered present to a curated past and feeling like today cannot measure up. We also break nostalgia into clear categories: nostalgia for people, for places, for an era, and for a version of yourself you fear you have lost. Each type can point to needs like belonging, safety, identity, play, faith, or connection.

Then we talk about the fork in the road. Healthy nostalgia can deepen gratitude, strengthen your sense of self, and soften grief. But nostalgia becomes a problem when it turns into avoidance, when it becomes a place of residence instead of reflection. Sometimes what we call nostalgia is grief wearing softer clothes, and naming that grief can be the first honest step forward.

If nostalgia has been showing up for you, I leave you with practical questions you can use right away to figure out what you are actually missing, and how to bring the best parts of that season forward into the life you are building now. 

Transcript

The Feeling We Call Nostalgia

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Greetings everybody and welcome back to the Counselor's Couch. I'm Calvin Williams, licensed professional counselor, and today I want to spend some time with a feeling that most of us know well, even if we don't always have a name for it. You know it's that strange mix of warmth and ache that shows up when an old song comes on the radio, when you smell a familiar cologne or perfume, or when you drive through a neighborhood that you haven't seen in years, or maybe when a picture catches you off guard and suddenly you're not fully in the present anymore. For a moment, you're somewhere else. You're back in a kitchen that no longer exists, you're sitting in a truck that you sold 20 years ago, you're hearing laughter of people who are no longer alive, or you're remembering a version of yourself that felt younger, freer, lighter, or maybe just less tired. That feeling is nostalgia. And nostalgia is a fascinating thing because it's rarely just about the memory. It's not simply the act of remembering something that happened. Nostalgia is remembering with emotion. It's memory with a pulse. It's memory with longing attached to it. It's the mind reaching backward, not just for information, but for something that feels meaningful, safe, familiar, grounding, or even unfinished. You know, we tend to talk about nostalgia in simple ways. We say things like, I'm feeling nostalgic, or I miss the good old days. We talk about old music, old TV shows, old restaurants, ball fields, friendships, family traditions, and old photographs. Sometimes nostalgia is light and playful, it makes us laugh, it makes us smile, it reminds us of who we used to be. But other times, nostalgia has a heaviness to it. It can leave us feeling sad, restless, unsettled or emotionally raw. It can stir up grief, regret, loneliness, or a longing that we can't quite explain. So today, I want to talk about nostalgia, not just as a sentimental trip down memory lane, but as something deeper. I want to talk about why the past pulls on us in a way that it does, why some memories comfort us while others haunt us, why we sometimes romanticize seasons of life that were not nearly as good as we remember them, and what nostalgia may actually be trying to tell us about our needs, our identity, our grief, and the life we're living right now. Because in my experience, nostalgia is rarely just about the past. More often it's about the meaning we attach to the past and the parts of ourselves that we fear we've lost along the way. But before we get started, let me remind you again: nothing provided in this podcast implies a therapeutic relationship between counselor and client. It is solely for education and entertainment. I hope to empower you to become more self-aware and challenge you to create the life that you desire. Counseling can help you overcome challenges, enhance your relationships, and develop skills to lead the life you want. If you are considering therapy, then please reach out to a trained, licensed

Disclaimer And Counseling Resources

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professional in your community. If you are interested in seeking counseling in the Monroe, Louisiana area, or if you live anywhere in Louisiana and you're interested in participating in teletherapy with state-approved professionals, well then contact the providers at Health Point Center. Change starts here. Psychology and Counseling Services. Health Point is a collaboration of independent professionals who are dedicated to improving your quality of life and guiding you on a positive path toward change. That's Health Point Center located at 1818 Avenue of America, Monroe, Louisiana. So call today to inquire about services, providers, or book an appointment at area code 318-998-2700. Well, it's that time again, so pull up a cushion, kick off your shoes, and grab a cup of coffee. Let's get started with the session. You know, if I had to define nostalgia in a simple way, I would say this. Nostalgia is a sentimental longing for the past, usually mixed with both comfort and sadness. It's one of those emotions that doesn't fit neatly into a single category because, well, it's both warm and painful at the same time. It can make us

Why Nostalgia Hurts And Heals

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smile and hurt in the same breath. It can leave us feeling grateful for what was and sad that it's gone. That's part of what makes nostalgia so powerful. It's emotionally layered. It's not just joy and it's not just sorrow. It's often both. It's the memory of safety mixed with the awareness that you can't go back. It's the memory of belonging mixed with the realization that people, places, and seasons have changed. It's the memory of hope mixed with the knowledge that life has since become more complicated. And that's why I think nostalgia deserves more attention than it usually gets. Because nostalgia often reveals that we are not only missing a time period, we may be missing a person, we may be missing a feeling, we may be missing a family dynamic that no longer exists. We may be missing the innocence we had before certain disappointments or losses, betrayals or responsibilities entered our lives. We may be missing the version of ourself that existed before divorce, before the diagnosis, before the move, before the children grew up or before the parents got old, even before our marriage changed or before we learned how painful life can be. In other words, nostalgia is not always a longing for the past itself. Sometimes it's a longing for what the past represented. Now that distinction matters. Sometimes we think we miss high school, college, or our first apartment, even the old neighborhood or the church, the job or the family holidays from thirty years ago. But if we are honest, what we're really missing is how we felt during those seasons. We miss the sense of possibility. We miss the family being intact. We miss the way our grandparents' house felt at Christmas time. We miss our mother's voice in the kitchen. You know, we miss the rhythm of the summer when we were children and the world still felt slow enough to breathe. We miss the old friendships before everybody moved away or drifted apart. We miss the younger version of ourself who still believed life was about to unfold in beautiful ways. Nostalgia then is not just memory, it's meaning. Now one of the reasons nostalgia can be so powerful is because memory is not a recording device. It's not a video archive stored neatly in the brain waiting to be replayed exactly as it happened. Memory is selective, it's interpretive, it's emotionally shaped, it's reconstructed every time we revisit it. Now that doesn't mean our memories are false, but it does mean they're filtered. Our minds don't hold on to the past as a camera would. We remember pieces. We remember sensations or emotional highlights, we remember fragments, and over time we tend to edit. Some details soften, some details disappear, some details become more dramatic, and some details become more meaningful than they originally were. This is the part of why nostalgia can be deceptive. The past can begin to glow in memory, in ways that it never actually glowed in real life. We remember the laughter, but not the boredom. We remember the freedom, but not the insecurity. We remember the family dinners, but not the tension at the table. You may remember the music, the road trips, the old neighborhood, the football games, the summers, first dates, college dorm, the old truck, the little house, the young marriage, the church camp, smell of your grandfather's workshop, the sound of our grandmother's television and the way Christmas felt when we were eight years old. But nostalgia has a way of sanding down the rough edges. It doesn't always erase the pain, but it can make the pain less vivid than the warmth. It can make us remember a season is simpler, purer, or happier than it really was. And that's important because sometimes we're comparing our messy present to an edited version of our past. We're comparing today's responsibilities and grief, bills, disappointments, aging bodies, fractured schedules, and complicated relationships to a memory that has been emotionally curated. Now, of course, the past wins in that comparison. The past has had time to become symbolic. The present is still cluttered with details. Now, one of the reasons I wanted to do this episode is because nostalgia fits naturally into something I talk about often. And that's the idea that experiences do not shape us merely because they happened. Experiences shape us because of the meaning we attach to them. What happened matters, of course, but what happened is not the whole story. The personal interpretation, the emotional

How Memory Edits The Past

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conclusion, the felt truth that grows out of the experience, that's often where the deeper shaping occurs. Nostalgia brings us right back into that territory. The reason an old song can hit you so hard is not just because you heard it in 1993 or 2004 or 1987. It's because that song has become attached to a meaning. Maybe it represents first love. Maybe it represents freedom. Maybe it represents a season before loss entered the picture. Or it represents a time when your parents were still alive, when your marriage still felt hopeful, when your children were little, when you still had your whole life in front of you, or when you believed certain dreams were still possible. The object itself, a song, a smell, a street, a movie, a holiday recipe, it's not the source of the emotion. The meaning attached to it is. That's why nostalgia can be so intense. It doesn't simply remind us of what happened, it reactivates the meanings we assign to those seasons. It wakes up the emotional truce that we formed in those years. This was home. This was safety. This is where I belonged. This was before everything changed. This was when my family was whole. This was before grief. It was before failure. This was before I became someone I didn't even recognize. When nostalgia is activated, those meanings come rushing back with it. And suddenly, we're not just remembering an event, we are revisiting an emotional world. I think it's helpful to break nostalgia down into categories because what we call nostalgia is not always one thing. Sometimes nostalgia is about people. A parent, a grandparent, spouse, sibling, or an old friend, a child when they were small, a person we lost through death, a person we lost through divorce, or a person who's still alive but no longer a part of our daily life.

People Places Selves And Eras

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When nostalgia is attached to people, it can feel especially tender because it's often carrying grief. We miss the sound of their voice, the way they laughed, the way they sat in their chair, the food they made, the way they called our name, or the way that they seemed to anchor the room just by being in it. Sometimes the nostalgia is attached to the person, and sometimes it's attached to who we were in their presence. We miss the feeling of being somebody's child. We miss being the one who could still call dad for advice. We miss walking into our mother's kitchen and knowing exactly what it smelled like. We miss being the person our grandparents knew before adulthood complicated everything. You know, sometimes nostalgia is even tied to a place. An old neighborhood, a church, a baseball field, grandparents' home, a cabin, a town we left, school hallway, or a diner. A house that's been since sold or torn down. Places matter because they hold emotional residue. They may say we miss the place, but often we miss the life that existed there. We miss the family that gathered there, we miss the version of ourselves who occupied that place. We miss what that place represented. It represented safety, routine, freedom, identity, innocence, or even belonging. You can drive by an old house and feel something in your chest before you even know what it is. The house itself may be ordinary, the paint may be different, the tree in the yard may be gone, but your body remembers. Your mind remembers. Your story remembers. Now this may be the most powerful form of nostalgia of all. Sometimes what we miss is not a place or a person, but a version of ourself. So nostalgia for a version of ourselves. We miss who we were before life got heavy. We miss the self that laughed more easily or trusted more quickly, slept better, dreamed bigger or carried less fear. We miss the self that had not yet been betrayed, disappointed, burned out, or worn thin by responsibility. We miss the younger self who still believed in the future. We missed the newly married self who still felt full of hope. We miss the parent we were when our children still reached for our hand. We miss the body we had before pain and age changed our relationship with it, and we miss the self who is not yet cynical, guarded, or exhausted. Now this kind of nostalgia can be especially painful because it's not just about remembering, it's about identity. It confronts us with the uncomfortable awareness that time has changed us. Some of that change is good, some of it is wisdom, some of it some of it's maturity, but some of it feels like loss. And if we're not careful, we can begin to believe that the best version of us is behind us. Then there's the nostalgia for an era. The seventies, the eighties, the nineties, the college years, the early years of marriage, the young parent years, the years before smartphones, the years before everyone moved away. You know, those years when the holidays felt magical. The years when the family still gathered in one house and all the chairs were filled. This type of nostalgia often gets framed as things were better back then. Sometimes there may be elements of truth in that. Some things really were different. Some things were slower, some things were more communal, things were less fractured by technology. But even here, what we're often missing is not the era itself. We're missing the emotional experience that era provided. We're missing what it represented simplicity, rhythm, belonging, predictability, family, or hope. One of the most helpful ways to think about nostalgia is to ask what function it serves. Why does the mind do this? Why does it reach back so often, especially in certain seasons of life? I think nostalgia often shows up when we're emotionally hungry. It can show up when we're lonely, when life feels unstable, when we're grieving,

When Nostalgia Helps Or Traps

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or we feel disconnected from ourselves, when the future feels uncertain. Maybe the present feels flat, heavy, or overburdened. Or when we're tired of being productive and responsible and competent and strong. When we're aging and suddenly aware that time is moving faster than we want it to. Perhaps your children are growing up, your parents are declining, marriages are changing, our routines are no longer feeling like home. When the life we built doesn't feel quite like the life we imagined. It can be the mind's way of reaching for continuity, for comfort, for identity, for grounding. It says, remember this? Remember when you felt connected? Remember when you felt alive? Remember that your life has contained beauty. Remember that you belong to somewhere, that there were moments of safety, laughter, warmth, and meaning. In that sense, nostalgia is not the enemy. It can actually be a resource. It can soothe loneliness. It can remind us of who we are. It can reconnect us with values we've drifted from. It can soften the edges of grief. And it can even help us feel less fragmented. But nostalgia can also become an escape if we're not paying attention. Now let's be fair to nostalgia for a moment, because not all of it is unhealthy. Some of it is deeply human and deeply good. There's something healthy about remembering where you came from. There's something grounding about revisiting the stories, the people and places that help shape you. There's something emotionally nourishing about hearing an old song and smiling. Looking back at old family photos and feeling grateful. About telling stories around the table and remembering the ridiculous things your uncles used to say, or about watching your children laugh at something you loved when you were their age. Healthy nostalgia can reconnect us to gratitude. It can strengthen identity, remind us of what matters. It can bring lost people close for a moment. It can help us feel continuity in a world that changes too fast. It can restore a sense of perspective when life feels thin and mechanical. It can even invite us to honor our story rather than running from it. In therapy, sometimes people talk about painful things for so long that they lose touch with the parts of their story that were good, meaningful, and beautiful. Nostalgia can help recover those parts. It can remind someone your life has not only been pain. There have been moments of laughter. There have been people who loved you. There have been places where you felt safe, and there have been seasons that mattered. That matters. But nostalgia has a shadow side too. Nostalgia becomes a problem when it stops being a source of reflection and becomes a place of residence. It becomes a problem when we begin to live emotionally backward, comparing every present moment to an idealized past and finding the present wanting. That's when nostalgia can quietly become a form of avoidance. We start saying things like those were the best years of my life, or I'll never feel that way again. Everything was better back then. I used to have purpose. I used to matter. I used to feel close to God. I used to feel alive. Now, those statements may contain real grief, but they can also harden into a dangerous narrative. They can turn the past into a shrine and the present into a disappointment. They can convince us that meaning is behind us instead of still available to us now. They can make us stop building, stop risking, stop engaging, stop grieving honestly, and stop asking what the current season is trying to offer. This is where nostalgia can become emotionally paralyzing instead of helping us remember. It starts helping us hide instead of connecting us to our story. It disconnects us from our current life. Instead of offering comfort, well, it quietly teaches us that the best is over and all we can do now is revisit what used to be. That's not nostalgia at its healthiest. That is nostalgia as a retreat. Now I think one of the most important things we can say about nostalgia is this. Sometimes nostalgia is not nostalgia at all. It's grief wearing softer clothes. We call it nostalgia because that word feels easier. It sounds gentler, it sounds less threatening. I'm feeling nostalgic is often easier to say than

Grief Wearing Softer Clothes

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I'm grieving the fact that my children are grown. Or I still haven't faced how much I miss my father. Or I don't know who I am, that this marriage is over, or I'm grieving the version of my body and mind I used to have. Or even I'm mourning the fact that the family I grew up in no longer exists. Grief is not only about death, grief is about change. It's about endings. It's about losing what once held us. And nostalgia often shows up right at the intersection of memory and loss. We grieve the house that was sold, the old family traditions that faded, the years before our parents became fragile, the season before our child moved away, the version of our marriage that existed before resentment, stress, or silence moved in. We grieve the self that we were before illness, betrayal, or burnout altered us. When nostalgia brings tears to your eyes, it may be asking for more than remembrance. It may be asking for grief. It may be asking that you acknowledge that something precious ended, and that part of you is still carrying the loss. You know, one of the traps nostalgia can set for us is the illusion that if we can just get back to something old, we'll feel whole again. If we can revisit the old town, reconnect with the old partner, or listen to the old songs, buy the old car, watch the old movie, or recreate the old holidays exactly as they once were. Maybe we can get the feeling back. Sometimes we do get a brief taste of it, but often what we discover is that the thing we miss can't be recreated because it was never only about the thing itself. It was about time. It was about context. It was about who we were then and who was still alive then, what had not happened yet, what we still believed then. You can go back to your childhood home and discover it doesn't feel like home at all. You can reunite with old friends and realize the chemistry belonged to a season, not just to the people. You can revisit a favorite vacation spot and find that the magic is not there because the magic was never just in the place. It was in the fact that your family was together, your father was healthy, your kids were small, your marriage still felt easy, and your nervous system had not yet learned to live in chronic stress. That realization can be painful, but it can also be clarifying. It helps us understand that what we're after is not always a location or an object. We're after a feeling. We are after a meaning. We are after a way of being in the world that felt more alive, more rooted, more connected, and more whole. And if that's true, then the goal can't simply be to recreate the past. The goal has to be to understand what the past represented and ask whether some of that can be reclaimed in the present. So what do we do with nostalgia shows up? I think one of the most helpful responses is curiosity. Instead of just letting the feeling wash over us without reflection, we can ask it some questions. First, what exactly am I missing right now? Ask yourself, am I missing a person, a place, a season, or a version of myself?

Questions That Clarify What You Need

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Ask yourself, what did that time in my life represent to me? What emotional need was being met back then that's not being met now? Consider asking, was that season really as good as I remember it, or am I remembering selectively? Am I longing for the past or am I grieving something that ended? Is this memory inviting me to appreciate my story? Or is it revealing a place where I feel empty in the present? Consider asking what qualities from that season do I still want in my life now? Maybe nostalgia reveals that you miss playfulness. Maybe it reveals that you miss slowness. Maybe it reveals that you miss family ritual. Or you miss friendship and belonging. Maybe it reveals that you miss feeling competent, attractive, adventurous, spiritually grounded, or emotionally safe. Or perhaps maybe it reveals that you miss a part of yourself that got buried under duty, fear, exhaustion, or disappointment. Those are important discoveries because once you know what you are actually missing, you can begin to respond to it more honestly. This is where I think nostalgia can become genuinely useful. You may not be able to get back the past, but you may be able to recover something that mattered within it. If nostalgia reminds you that you miss connection, well, maybe the task is not to keep replaying old memories, but to invest in current relationships. If nostalgia reminds you that you miss family ritual, well, maybe the invitation is to create new rituals rather than mourning the old ones forever. If nostalgia reminds you that you miss play, creativity, or freedom, maybe it's time to ask where your current life has become too narrow, too efficient, too adult like, and too emotionally starved. If nostalgia reminds you that you once felt close to God, maybe it's not calling you back to the exact church pew or the youth retreat where that happened. Maybe it's calling you back to prayer, silence, gratitude, wonder, and an honest conversation with God in the present. If nostalgia reminds you of a version of yourself who felt more alive, maybe the question is not how do I become twenty five again? Maybe the question is what qualities did that younger self embody that still deserve a place in my life now? Was that younger self curious, hopeful, spontaneous, courageous, relational, creative, playful, less afraid of looking foolish, more open to awe? These qualities don't belong exclusively to the past. They may have been easier to access then, but they don't have to remain buried there. You know, I think one of the biggest mistakes we make is assuming the present has to compete with the past on the past's terms. Now think about that. The present has to compete with the past on the past's terms. Of course the present is going to lose that contest. The present is unfinished. It's cluttered. It contains bills, deadlines, doctor appointments, awkward conversations, and the ordinary frustrations of just simply being alive. The past, on the other hand, has been distilled into moments, symbols, songs, photographs, and emotionally loaded memories. But the present doesn't need to compete with the past. It needs to be lived. And that may be the real work when nostalgia shows up. Not to suppress it, not to shame it, not to drown it, but to let it tell the truth about what mattered, and then ask how that truth might be honored now. Maybe the old family Christmases mattered because they were slow and intentional. If so, maybe the present invitation is to simplify and create room for your own children or your grandchildren to feel something similar. Maybe your nostalgia for college is really nostalgia for friendship and spontaneity. If so, maybe the present invitation is to stop waiting for life to become less busy and actually call the friend you've been meaning to call. Maybe your nostalgia for your grandparents' house is really nostalgia for being known, welcomed, and fed without having to perform. If so, maybe the present invitation is to become that kind of safe place for somebody else. Maybe even your nostalgia for the old neighborhood is really a longing for community. If so, maybe the task is not to keep driving by the old street, but to build a more connected life where you are now. You know, I think nostalgia becomes especially active as we age, because aging forces us to confront the passage of time in a more personal way. We start to realize that entire worlds have disappeared. People we assumed would always be here are gone. Buildings are gone, traditions are gone, our bodies change, our roles change. Our children become

Carrying The Best Parts Forward

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adults, and our parents become dependent. We become the older generation almost without noticing when it happened. And that can be disorienting. Nostalgia in those seasons can feel intense because it's not just about missing old things. It's about reckoning with time itself. It's about recognizing that life is moving, whether we're ready or not. It's about facing the reality that some doors have closed and some identities have shifted, and even some chapters are over. But I also think aging gives nostalgia a different kind of gift. It can deepen gratitude. It can teach us to hold memory tenderly rather than desperately. It can remind us that a life is not made only of what we still possess, but also of what we have been privileged to love. There's something sacred about being able to say, I miss that because it mattered. The ache is painful, yes, but it's also evidence of attachment, of meaning, of having lived enough to have something worth missing. So how do we hold nostalgia well? I think we hold it with honesty. We let it warm us, but we don't let it lie to us. We let it remind us, but we don't let it imprison us. We let it reveal grief, but we don't confuse grief with a command to live backward. We let it show us what mattered, but we keep asking how those values, needs, and longings might still find expression in the life we're living now. We can honor the old song without pretending that the only meaningful years are behind us. We can miss the old house without believing home is gone forever. We can grieve the younger version of ourselves without despising the person we've become. We can love what was without refusing what is. And maybe that's the balance nostalgia asks us for to remember without worshiping, to grieve without collapsing, and to receive the past as a teacher rather than a hiding place. So, if nostalgia has been showing up for you lately, I want to encourage you not to dismiss it as sentimental nonsense and not to get swallowed up by it either. Listen to it. Pay attention to what it awakens. Ask yourself, what is it trying to show you? Maybe it's reminding you of someone you still need to grieve. Maybe it's showing you that your life has become too rushed, too disconnected, too joyless, or too efficient. Maybe it's pointing you back to values that you've neglected. Maybe it's inviting you to reconnect with people, places, or practices that once made you feel grounded. Maybe it's simply asking you to honor a chapter that mattered. But maybe, just maybe, nostalgia is not calling you to go backward at all. Maybe it's calling you to bring something forward. Maybe the past is not asking to be relived. Maybe it's asking to be understood. The old memory, the old song, the old photograph, the old neighborhood, the old holiday ritual, the old version of you. They're not showing up to convince you that life is over. Maybe they're showing up to remind you that your heart has always needed connection, meaning, safety, belonging, faith, play, tenderness, and home. And if that's true, then nostalgia is not just an ache. It's information. It is invitation. It's a quiet voice from the past asking whether what mattered then still has a place in your life that you're building now. Now, if this episode did resonate with you, then I'd encourage you to sit with one question this week. What is my nostalgia trying to tell me that I need in the present? That's it. What is my nostalgia trying to tell me that I need in the present life today? You know, I want to thank you for joining me on the Counselor's Couch. And until next time,

Final Quote Nugget And Next Steps

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I want you to take care of yourself and take care of each other. But before we leave the couch, let's finish with two thoughts. One from someone who helped shape the way we understand the human condition, and one nugget from the couch. Today's historical quote is from the Danish philosopher Soren Kirkingard, who once wrote, Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards. Perhaps that's the proper place for nostalgia and where it lives in our lives. We look backward to understand where we've been, what we've loved, what we've lost, and what those experiences have meant to us. But we must continue living forward. The past can inform our lives, shape our gratitude, and remind us of what matters. But it was never intended to become the only place where we still feel alive. And your nugget from the couch for this episode? Nostalgia may invite us to visit the past, but it should never convince us to move back in. Listen to what the memory is trying to tell you, folks. Honor the people, places, and versions of yourself that help shape your story. Grieve what needs to be grieved and cherish what deserves to be cherished. Then ask yourself what you can carry forward. Because sometimes what you're missing is not the past itself. You're missing the connection, joy, safety, belonging, or hope that you experienced in the past. You may not be able to return to that season, but you can begin creating those feelings again in the season that you're living now. Remember, folks, life is not about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself. You are not alone. You're more capable than you will ever know, so embrace it. Live intentionally, love daily, and laugh often. Do your best today and become what you can because the world needs you. Please subscribe and follow me on whatever format you use to listen to podcasts. Remember to take a moment to leave a review on Apple Podcasts and give us a shout out. Let me know what you think. And take a minute to share the episode with a friend or a family member. I really want to get the message out there that you are not alone, and connection is key. Remember, you can also show your financial support by clicking on the show your support link in every episode description. Or if you have any questions or comments about the podcast, you can email them directly to the CounselorsCouch at gmail.com, and you can even reach me on Facebook at the Counselor's Couch. And you can check out my website at www.calvincwilliamslpc.com. Or if you'd like to schedule a therapy session with me, then contact us at Health Point Center, area code 318-9982700. I always look forward to hearing from listeners, so please feel free to submit topics of interest, comments, or questions. Keep coming back. Thanks again for stopping by and remember, folks, there's always room for you on the counselor's couch.