Sometimes it takes only one sound for the heart to stop. The scent of summer rain, identical to the one from years ago, when we returned from school in soaked shoes. An old object found at the bottom of a drawer—bringing a smile and a faint sting in the chest. The melody from Contra on the NES (or rather the Pegasus), or the groaning sound of an old computer struggling to read a 3.5’’ floppy disk. These moments not only take us back in time but also make the past suddenly present. Why are they so important to us?
In the West we speak in such moments of nostalgia. Yet that word smells of sadness—it carries the pain of what has been lost, a longing for golden years to which there is no return. In Japanese, however, there exists another expression: natsukashii (懐かしい). It does not mean longing, but a warm recognition of what has passed. A joy tinged with delicate sorrow, yet free of weight. It is an emotion that allows us to remember with gratitude rather than drown in a sense of absence.
That is precisely why natsukashii tells us so much about Japan—that memory does not have to be a burden, but a gentle light accompanying the present. It is a lesson: about a language that can give emotions a soft shape and weave them into everyday life; about a word that teaches us that memory may not only recall the past but also illuminate our path here and now. It is also a story about ourselves—that we can look at our own lives with gratitude, not by escaping into former times, but by drawing strength from what has already passed. Let us now discover another word that allows us to better understand “Japanese emotions,” which do not necessarily have to be exclusively Japanese: natsukashii—a warm recollection that strengthens us in who we are.
In Japanese culture, natsukashii is not merely an ordinary memory or nostalgia, but an entire spectrum of feelings woven into one. It is the smile that appears when we hear a familiar childhood melody, the scent of a summer festival, or the taste of a dish prepared by a grandmother. Unlike the Western understanding of nostalgia, often infused with sadness and regret, natsukashii is a warm and light experience—it does not weigh down but brightens. It is the awareness that something has passed, yet still endures within us as a source of gratitude.
The kanji 懐 (futokoro) holds within it a rich meaning. Its primary element is the radical 忄, meaning “heart”—a signal that the word concerns feelings, inner stirrings, emotional closeness. The other component serves a phonetic function, but also carries associations with what is contained inside, what is stored or protected. Hence the original meaning of futokoro—“bosom, chest, the pocket near the heart”—the closest, most intimate place where one keeps what is most precious.
In this light, natsukashii signifies much more than merely “reminding of the past.” It is the sense that a memory or object has not been lost, but still resides in our “heart-pocket,” carried close and cherished. Language here reveals a profound cultural difference: in Japan, nostalgia is not a cold or painful feeling, but a heartfelt emotion rooted in bond and closeness.
Such encoding of emotion in language shapes the way it is experienced. When a Japanese person says natsukashii, they are not expressing longing for an impossible return, but sharing the warmth of what was and still lives within them. In this way, language creates a frame for emotion—giving it direction and tone. Thanks to this, memories are not a burden but a source of gratitude and peace, and nostalgia is from the outset inscribed in the register of bright and soothing feelings.
In European languages, “nostalgia” is understood above all as a longing for what has been lost—the very etymology (Greek nóstos “return” + álgos “pain”) suggests a component of suffering. Modern psychology, however, adds that nostalgia is a “bittersweet” emotion: it combines sadness with shades of warmth, connection, and meaning, and its overall balance is usually positive—it strengthens positive affect, the sense of meaning, and inspiration. Recent reviews show that nostalgic memories usually help rather than harm, though their tone may vary depending on context and the way they are experienced.
Against this background, natsukashii is a related emotion, but culturally “tuned” differently: it is a memory that warms the present—without the desire to turn back time. The root of the word leads to the verb natsuku (“to become attached, to get close, to hold near”), which explains why natsukashii conveys not so much regret as closeness and tender recognition of what was and remains within us. In short: it is memory “carried close to the heart,” not a longing for return.
Psychologically, natsukashii may therefore be described as an integration of joy and a faint sting of sorrow—but oriented toward acceptance, bond, and gratitude. This profile aligns with what we know about nostalgia as a fundamentally social emotion: it refers to relationships, important episodes of identity and roles, strengthens the sense of “self-continuity” and meaning in life. Experimental and longitudinal studies indicate that evoking such memories enhances well-being in multiple dimensions (affect, bonds, self, meaning), and the mediating mechanism is often precisely the reinforced connectedness with others and with one’s own history.
What does this mean in practice for emotion regulation? First, recalling in the natsukashii mode serves as a “mood regulator”: it reduces feelings of loneliness, increases optimism and resilience to everyday micro-stresses, and in people facing difficult situations (e.g., chronic stress, illness, aging) may bring measurable benefits for mental health and quality of life. Second, because natsukashii is rooted in warmth and recognition (“thank you that this was”), it activates a pattern akin to gratitude—which supports emotional balance and prosociality. Third, when the tone of nostalgia becomes too bitter (e.g., dominated by grief over irreversible loss), daily well-being decreases; natsukashii “tilts” that pendulum toward acceptance.
Finally, an important caveat: neither nostalgia nor natsukashii are “magically” good always and for everyone. What matters is the way the memory is framed. When we recall it with an attitude of presence and kindness—as part of a story we still carry within—we gain what the Japanese natsukashii names directly: the warmth of memory, which does not detach from the present but illuminates it. This difference—between longing for return and grateful recognition—is suggested already by the language itself and its etymology.
In Japan, natsukashii is not a private emotion in the sense in which we often understand nostalgia in the West—as a personal return to one’s own memories. It is a socially rooted, cultivated, and shared feeling. A good example is dōsōkai (同窓会)—school alumni reunions, which can take place regularly for decades. At such gatherings, it is not merely about replaying the past, but about collectively reaffirming bonds that, despite the passing of years, still endure. When a toast is raised, someone recalls a school anecdote, and another participant pulls out an old class photo, a whispered “natsukashii!” ripples through the room. In that one word lies not only memory, but also community—something that everyone present feels simultaneously.
Interestingly, natsukashii can also apply to things we have never personally experienced. Japanese people may use the word to describe the sight of a rural Edo-period landscape depicted in ukiyo-e, the melodies of long-forgotten folk songs, or even a dish whose taste is known only from stories. This is the effect of “collective memory”—a place in culture that feels as if we had always known it, even though in reality we could never have directly experienced it. When someone in Tokyo says that old enka songs from the 1960s are “natsukashii,” a younger listener, too young to remember the 1960s, may nonetheless feel natsukashii. The sense of “familiarity” does not arise from personal experience, but from participation in tradition and heritage transmitted through culture.
Natsukashii is inseparably tied to the aesthetics of mono no aware—the awareness of the transience of things and the melancholic tenderness toward impermanence. When the cherry blossoms bloom, the Japanese admire their beauty, knowing it will last only a few days. This too is a kind of natsukashii in real time—a feeling that immediately registers that the moment will become a memory. The same effect arises when gazing at old temples in Kyoto, which, though restored and still standing, carry within them the echo of past eras, as if history had imprinted itself in their wood and stones.
In Western cultures, nostalgia is often linked to longing for a “golden age”—lost youth, “better times,” an idealized past. It is heavier, more dramatic, marked by a sense of lack. Japan, on the contrary, emphasizes gratitude. “It has passed, but how good that it was”—that is the essence of natsukashii. Because of this, memory does not separate from the present but enriches it. The difference is subtle yet fundamental: instead of closing themselves off in the past, the Japanese learn to live with it and draw serenity from it.
One might say that natsukashii is like a shared family album—not only a collection of images, but also the feeling that we are part of a greater story. An album we look through not to dwell on loss, but to gratefully remember that our lives are made of moments which—even if they have already passed—remain within us forever.
Japanese literature has for centuries been saturated with the feeling we would now call natsukashii. Already in Genji monogatari by Murasaki Shikibu (more here: The Author of the World's First Novel: Meet the Strong and Stubborn Murasaki Shikibu (Heian, 973)), we find scenes in which memories of past moments—encounters, fleeting relationships, landscapes—return to the consciousness of the characters like a warm yet painful gust of wind. When Genji remembers Yūgao, his deceased beloved, he does not sink solely into grief, but keeps in his heart the image of her presence, transforming loss into a lasting memory—and that is precisely the dimension of natsukashii: joy that something was, despite the sadness that it is gone (more on Genji and Yūgao here: Genji and Yugao – The Secrets of the Moonflower in a Millennium-Old Tale of Desire and Loss). In waka poetry and haiku, the motif of memory’s return often appears through nature—the recurring sound of cicadas, the scent of plum blossoms, or the sight of the moon summon events from years past, while at the same time offering solace. In this context, natsukashii becomes a kind of literary “bridge”—between present and past, between the individual and the universal experience of impermanence.
In ukiyo-e art this motif is also present, though often hidden beneath layers of everyday life. Hiroshige’s landscapes from the series One Hundred Famous Views of Edo depicted the city in a way that already, at the moment of their creation, carried an element of natsukashii. The trees blooming along the banks of the Sumida, the crowded bridges, the bustling streets of Asakusa—these were images well known to Hiroshige’s contemporaries, yet presented in such a way that already upon publication they became something “worthy of remembrance.” People bought these prints not only as souvenirs but also as emotional anchors—quasi-photographs of the era that evoked the feeling of “this is ours, this is close to the heart.” With Yoshitoshi, natsukashii takes on a more dramatic form—for example in the series One Hundred Aspects of the Moon, where memories of past heroes, wars, and legends intertwine with moonlight. Here natsukashii takes on a historical dimension: when gazing at the figure of the onibaba in “The Lonely House on the Moor in Adachi” or Fujiwara no Yasumasa playing the flute, the viewer experiences a feeling that links past and present, as if the spirit of bygone eras were still alive.
Contemporary Japanese pop culture almost constantly plays in the tones of natsukashii. In anime such as Only Yesterday (Omoide Poro Poro) by Studio Ghibli, the entire narrative is built upon retrospection—the adult protagonist returns to memories of her school years, which do not overwhelm her with sorrow but allow her to understand her own choices and find herself in the present. A similar mechanism operates in Clannad—family scenes, childhood memories, and everyday details stir emotions in viewers not because they depict loss, but because they remind us of the fragility and beauty of life. In music the term natsukashii appears literally—enka singers often use it to describe hometown places or first loves. When someone in karaoke begins singing an old hit from the 1980s, the comments “natsukashii!” instantly arise, and the audience smiles more broadly. This is not just sentiment—it is a shared generational experience.
Manga too is filled with examples of natsukashii. In Doraemon, every encounter of Nobita with magical gadgets, though comical, carries the potential of nostalgia—the adult reader sees in them their own childhood dreams, recalls the taste of carefree days, and the world where fantasy was part of the everyday. In Barakamon, the main character’s relationship with the children of the village is full of moments that immediately become memories—innocent, humorous situations that, already as they unfold, transform into something that will later be recalled as natsukashii.
Natsukashii does not encourage escape into the past, but a grateful look at what has passed. This is a subtle yet fundamental difference. Instead of sinking into longing, the Japanese teach that one can carry memories like a treasure—close to the heart, but without burden. It is not about turning back time or idealizing “the good old days,” but about accepting that moments have passed, and yet are still with us, strengthening our sense of identity.
One can try a simple exercise. Pause for a moment and summon one memory—it might be the scent of a childhood bonfire, shared laughter with friends, or the image of a place you visited only once yet remember as if it were yesterday. Instead of regretting that the moment will never return, feel it as natsukashii—with gratitude that it happened at all, and with the warmth it can still evoke. This perspective transforms memory into a source of strength and gentleness.
In a world so often driving us with haste, the pressure of novelty, and the constant need to “stay up to date,” it is worth learning the art of lingering with memory. Natsukashii shows that the past is not an opponent of the present, but its ally—it teaches us calm, reminds us of what is truly important, and gives meaning to everyday experiences. It is a lesson in mature serenity of spirit: it is not about stopping time, but about living in such a way that every moment, even once past, can still warm us.
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未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
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