As Millennials enter their 30s and 40s, and Gen Z comes of age, a wave of nostalgia is sweeping through social media, film, and TV. People are reminiscing about early internet culture, pop entertainment, simpler school days, and even childhood drinks. But nostalgia is hardly a new or unique phenomenon. TWOC spoke with six individuals from different generations to explore what stirs their memories. Their stories, though deeply personal, nevertheless reflect the rapidly evolving society. Here’s what we found:

Li Qunsheng, 89, retired mechanic, Beijing

I started ballroom dancing when I was 17. At that time, Chairman Mao Zedong encouraged the working class in Beijing to embrace this elegant and civilized art. For me, ballroom dancing is a refined expression, unlike the chaotic dances popular today.

Back in the 50s, I was selected, along with 79 other men and women from various government enterprises, such as the National Cotton Factory, for a ballroom dance group to perform at weekend gatherings with foreign embassy members. This was believed to be part of Chairman Mao’s strategy to improve the image of the Chinese working class. Dressed in our work uniforms, we were often treated to apples and red sugar water after performances. That was quite nice.

During that time, there weren’t many dance halls where we could hang out. But there were dance venues within state enterprises like the Workers’ Club and the Grain Bureau. Every Saturday, each venue held several free sessions, and we would just go there with our membership cards.

Dancing gradually became my livelihood, earning me a modest 16 yuan per month—the same amount as an apprentice in other jobs. New clothes also came regularly as a small perk for us. However, romance was only a remote fantasy for us in those days, as relationships were strictly forbidden in dance halls. Even a hint of interest could lead to trouble, sometimes even expulsion.

I remember my dance partner Li Xiuying. She was a year older than me, and we danced together for decades in all sorts of places in Beijing: the Cultural Palace, Tiananmen Square, Zhongshan Park, you name it. We would often practice till the early hours before cycling back home. She was more like a big sister to me. Unfortunately, I lost contact with her over the years. She changed her phone number, and the neighborhood she lived in was demolished. It’s quite a pity. I often think how wonderful it would be to dance with her again.

For the past 28 years, I’ve been coming to Ritan Park every morning from 9 to 11:30, dancing to the classic rhythm of Deng Lijun’s songs by myself. I tried to teach others in the park before the pandemic, but I stopped doing that as it was too much of a hassle. Many people now just don’t connect with the music or the pace. Some treat it as a social experiment rather than an art. Some even come to these dance sessions just to mess around with other women. In the past, ballroom dancing required daily training and practice. That’s no longer the case now.

Liu Yu (pseudonym), 63, retired shopping mall assistant, Beijing

Although I didn’t have many physical possessions in my childhood, I felt truly happy in those days. The yard would be bustling with about 50 children after school. All of us just walked to school and returned home on our own, rarely with any supervision from our parents. After finishing our homework together, my friends and I would visit each other’s homes for fun, and our neighborhood was our playground.

We would throw stones, skip rope, twirl tops, or simply play with metal rings on the street. I remember carefully handcrafting the tops ourselves. We also made toy guns and small baskets out of popsicle sticks. Although our materials were limited, those handmade toys were generally practical and sparked creativity.

Kids now seem so lonely in comparison. Many are confined in high-rises all day. My 2-year-old grandson has many nice toys, but he is missing the opportunity to develop the skills that crafting them could provide. Toys now are mostly pre-made items or assembly kits. To me, they seem more like clutter than companions for children.

Song Yan, 53, retired journalist, Beijing

When I was in college in 1991, cultural life was incredibly rich, and there was a strong desire for new information and knowledge. People were hopeful that a bright and promising future would unfold before us. Everyone was filled with a sense of eagerness and felt as though there was so much to learn.

I remember joining a music club on campus. It was around the time when rock music had just started to gain popularity in China. Music from legendary foreign artists and groups like Guns N’ Roses, Bon Jovi, Metallica, and U2 filled our conversations and gatherings. We shared cassette tapes—some were marked with a cut to signify they were illegal copies smuggled in through customs, known as dakoudai (打口带). At night, we gathered outside in a circle, with someone playing guitar while we sang along to songs we all knew well, such as “More Than Words” by Extreme.

It was also a magical era when anything seemed possible. Despite being an engineering major, I called a newspaper for an internship just because I have a passion for journalism. The answer was simple: “Come and try it out.” No one cared what I was studying. I interned there for three years and became a journalist afterward, a complete career change from what I was supposed to do with my degree.

Relationships were also purer and more genuine during those days. It was a state of “innocent thoughts (思无邪).” No one cared how much others made since there wasn’t much of a difference in our earnings. Competition for materials didn’t seem as intense as it is now. People cared more about spiritual connection and weren’t overly concerned with material interests. I only started hearing about things like bride prices in recent years. We didn’t think about issues like who owns the house or whether to put the man’s or woman’s name on it. What mattered was whether I liked you. If I didn’t have strong feelings for you, we definitely couldn’t be together.

Xiao Yun, 47, private school teacher, Fujian

When the martial arts novelist Jin Yong passed away in 2018, I felt a deep loss. It was as if a part of both my childhood and teenage years was just gone with him.

My teenage life was all about the world crafted by wuxia writers like Jin Yong, Gu Long, Liang Yusheng, and Huang Yi. My Chinese teacher introduced my first wuxia novel to me when I was 10. Though I can’t remember the exact name of the book, I do recall it being a story about a female protagonist clad in red clothes wielding a whip as her weapon. I stayed up until midnight devouring the book, following the journey of that free-spirited woman as she roamed the martial world fighting for justice. I still envy her to this day.

In high school, my love for wuxia reached new heights. I remember sneaking out during the self-study sessions in the evening to rent wuxia novels for 0.5 yuan per day, only to be caught by our headmaster.

In rural areas like my hometown, our entertainment options were limited. For those of us born in the 70s and 80s, these novels were more than just stories—they were gateways to a world of chivalry and heroism, offering us an escape from the relentless studying we had to endure.

When the film adaptation of The Legend of the Condor Heroes: The Great Hero (《射雕英雄传：侠之大者 》) was released during this Chinese New Year, I planned to watch. But after seeing all the negative comments online, I decided to skip this one. I don’t want anything to ruin the good memories I had with this classic work.

I know it’s natural for the popularity of wuxia to wane over time. No single narrative can last forever. Each generation will inevitably create its own literature, myths, and heroes, which I believe is what makes the world fascinating.

Huang Siying, 36, freelance writer, Fujian

When I first heard that the youth literature magazine Top Novel (《最小说》) shut down in 2018, I felt a deep sense of sadness. My initial reaction was: “Oh, I can live without the magazine, but you can’t just shut it down!”

Visiting our local bookstore and waiting for magazines like Top Novel and Readers (《读者》) to come out every week was a cherished ritual I had in high school. These magazines and other romance novels sparked my literary awakening, planting the seed of my dream to become a writer.

Back then, there weren’t many e-commerce platforms like Taobao or Dangdang, where you could easily look up books and order them to your doorstep. I still remember searching through three bookstores in our small county in eastern Fujian, in 2004, with my friends, looking for a copy of novelist Guo Jingming’s Lost in the Dream (《梦里花落知多少》), recommended by our Chinese teacher—only to find no luck. Later in high school, publishers would send booklets to our school for group orders.

Exchanging these books and novels became a great bonding experience between me and my friends. We visited the private book stall outside our school every day, where a long corridor always led us to a dazzling array of youth literature, and shared with each other how we resonated with the characters. While these books might be disappearing now, I feel that as long as the friends I made back then are still around, my youth isn’t completely over. I’m still good friends with a girl I met through those group buys to this day.

I haven’t revisited these books and magazines for years—not because I’m ashamed, but simply because my tastes have evolved since I was 16. I’m now a freelance writer. Even though I haven’t fully achieved my childhood dream of being a published author yet, I’m proud to have found a way to support myself through my passion.

Bai Hanyan, 15, middle school student, Henan

I was born in 2010, yet somehow, I feel out of sync with the current society. The things I loved have already disappeared, and the people I loved have grown old. I might have been much happier if I had been born 20 years earlier.

I often reminisce about the carefree days of my childhood when everyone was filled with hope and energy. I had a used MP3 player handed down to me by my cousin, and it was filled with pop songs from the 80s and 90s, like “My Future is Not a Dream (《我的未来不是梦》)” by Taiwanese singer Tom Chang. I also grew up watching Stephen Chow movies. They taught me to be brave, strong, optimistic, and always chasing my dreams. I used to think Chow would never age, but seeing his current photos can sometimes leave me in a daze. I wish I could have experienced the era depicted in these movies.

Despite growing up in an underdeveloped rural town, I was exposed to the internet since I was 8. Back then, the vibe online was much more inclusive. One of my favorite corners of the internet was the Lianpeng Guihua section on the now-defunct online forum Tianya, where people would publish novels or experiences with supernatural elements. I still remember the friendly debates about the best portrayal of the female protagonist, Huang Rong, in the various adaptations of The Legend of the Condor Heroes. Everyone shared their thoughts and reasons. Just the other day, I came across a similar question on Xiaohongshu, but the discussions quickly turned into heated arguments. Similarly, the sharing of resources for online novels or gaming strategies was common at that time, but now these requests could easily trigger online debate. I also intentionally avoid going on Baidu Tieba now. The infamously misogynistic Sun Xiaochuan Bar has become a breeding ground for internet trolls—a far cry from the friendly environment from when I was little.

I now feel increasingly weary of the constant information overload in our fast-paced lives. I sometimes feel lost. As a chronic nostalgist, I find solace in flipping through old photographs of architecture from the 1990s. Those images bring me comfort, like returning to the womb. Though nothing is really forgotten, it has all become a thing of the past.