Author Matthew Heneghan

Nostalgia: that old lover who knows all your buttons and exactly how to tickle them. A lens we gaze through with fondness and whimsy. The warm breath of comfort that comes from staring backwards at what once was.

Sure, there are endless debates about nostalgia — was it really as good as we remember? But honestly, I don’t give a shit. Adult life is hard enough on its own; it doesn’t need our help pouring corrosive doubt on the few sweet memories we get to keep.

Nostalgia is a gift. A goddamn hand-wrapped, bow-topped gift. Why question it?

This morning, still wading through the tail end of jet lag, I crept out of bed and wandered downstairs. Flicked on the TV and gave myself over to that timeless modern ritual: thumbing through content like a 21st-century zombie. Jaw slack, eyes dull, brain empty. Just one primal command on repeat: must keep flipping…

That was until my mind happened upon a curious little thought, like a fish to a lure. As the final days of August begin to fall, my most revered and favorite months of the year are set to begin — the ber months. You know the ones: Septem-ber, Octo-ber, Novem-ber, Decem-ber. Each month with something magical held within it, like a celestial advent calendar for geeks like me.

September: the start of autumn. A season that feels like it was scripted just for me — grey skies, chilled nights, changing leaves. A love language I was born to understand. The cursive of nature’s beautiful hand.

October: Halloween. From the first to the thirty-first, it’s the crown jewel. The air turns sharper, nights smell of damp woodsmoke. Wind nips at your cheeks and nose — not cruelly, but like a grandmother pinching the face of a child. A love tap from the season itself.

November: orange and yellow fade to grey, ash, and white. The air whispers of what’s coming. Department stores crank Mariah Carey on repeat, tormenting us like cruel jesters of capitalism. Still, there’s something in the stillness of November nights that feels sacred, even if the soundtrack is questionable.

December: the big finale. A month soaked in lights, laughter, and the ache of memories — both good and hard. The cold cuts deeper, but so does the warmth from kitchens, fireplaces, favorite comforters, and crowded tables. It’s the month where nostalgia goes into overdrive, pulling us back to childhood like a sleigh pulled through snow. And even if it never feels exactly the same, we chase it anyway. That’s the beauty. A month soaked in neon sparkle — even if we never get back to how it was when we were twelve, it still exists as something magical from now till the end of our days.

I am never in a hurry to get through these months, which is why, on a whim, I stopped the doomscroll, hit search, and typed: Home Improvement.

Not to fix my humble abode — but to chase down that 90s sitcom where Tim Allen grunted his way through fatherhood and power tools. And from what I recalled in that fuzzy little corner of memory, those Halloween specials were some of the best.

And just like that, I was eleven again. Watching from the stairs while my mum sat in her spot on the couch, smoking and sipping tea. I could hear her laugh echo in my ears as the cover art for Home Improvement flickered onto the screen.

One by one, I watched the Halloween episodes. No longer a zombie — though still transfixed — just gleeful. Content.

If this is how I ride out the last stages of jet lag from Greece, so be it. Sign me the hell up.

Nostalgia — I don’t question it. I just let it in. You should too.