Reconnecting With My Teenage Self at 41 (Thanks, Westlife)

Last night, I went to see Westlife.

And for two hours, I wasn’t 41.

I wasn’t a counsellor, an adult with responsibilities, or someone who sometimes forgets what she came upstairs for.

I was a teenager again.

It happened instantly, the moment the lights dropped and the first note hit. I was transported straight back to the girl who used to spend hours getting ready for concerts, who saved up for tickets, who made banners because we were that close to the front. I could remember who I went with. I could remember the excitement. I could remember the absolute event of it all. My mam and dad driving my friends and me to the venue, standing outside in the cold, waiting for us to come out, getting a free concert through the walls while we screamed and sang inside. They never complained. They just smiled when we came out hoarse and happy, clutching our merch and memories.

And maybe it’s because nostalgia is everywhere right now.

TikTok is full of pages dedicated to remembering what Christmas was like in the 90s, what the last day of school before the holidays felt like, the smell of tinsel, the classroom lights being switched off as the TV trolley squeaked its way in. I can still picture myself walking home from school with our old Christmas lights glowing in the window, or sitting cross legged on the carpet watching a festive film with my friends.

Just like the concert, these posts take me back.

They unlock memories I didn’t realise were still stored somewhere, the harmless, joyful ones that feel uncomplicated and safe to revisit.

Suddenly I could remember smells, outfits, the exact feeling I had when a new song was released. I could remember sitting by the radio listening to the Top 40, waiting to see if they had made it to number one again, the excitement and hope I had for people I didn’t even know.

I remembered the sadness of hearing Brian’s press release when he left the group.

I remembered the poster wall in my bedroom, floor to ceiling, chaotic, colourful, and absolutely sacred.

I remembered singing into a deodorant can, dancing around my room, and believing the world was huge and full of possibility.

And here’s the funny part.

Sometimes I can’t remember what I came upstairs for.

But somehow my brain had stored every lyric, every harmony, every beat.

I sang and danced my heart out like no time had passed at all.

And the feeling didn’t stop when I left the arena.

It followed me into the next day, a kind of glow, a softness, a reconnection with a younger version of myself I didn’t realise I had been missing.

Growing up wasn’t perfect for me. It had its trials, its complicated bits, its moments that shaped me in ways I’m still understanding. But being in that concert didn’t take me back to the difficult parts. It took me back to the harmless, joyful memories. The ones that felt uncomplicated. The ones that felt safe to revisit. The ones that felt like mine.

The Person Centred Bit, Conditions of Worth, Permission, and the Weight of Growing Up

As we grow, we all absorb conditions of worth, messages about what makes us acceptable or valued.

The “you’re good if…”

The “you’re worthy when…”

The “don’t be too much of this” or “not enough of that.”

Those messages shape how we show up as adults.

They influence what we allow ourselves to feel, express, or revisit.

They can make adulthood feel rigid, serious, armoured, professional, like we have to hold everything together all the time.

But sometimes, we need permission to loosen that grip.

Permission to not be the adult every second of the day.

Permission to act daft.

Permission to dance in the office when a song comes on the radio.

Permission to make someone laugh.

Permission to strip off the armour, the masks, the professionalism, and just dance.

That old saying has always meant a lot to me.

Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.

And last night, I did exactly that.

This is what unconditional positive regard offers in person centred counselling.

A space where you are valued without conditions.

Where you don’t have to perform adulthood perfectly.

Where you don’t have to revisit anything you don’t want to.

Where your story is met with acceptance, not expectation.

Where reconnecting with younger parts of yourself is an option, not a requirement.

For me, reconnecting with my teenage self felt joyful, grounding, and unexpectedly healing.

For someone else, reconnecting might look completely different, or not be part of their journey at all.

Both are valid.

Both are respected.

Sometimes healing isn’t about going deep.

Sometimes it’s about singing your lungs out in an arena full of strangers who all remember the same things you do.

Sometimes it’s about letting your teenage self take over for a bit, if that feels okay.

Sometimes it’s about remembering the person you were, and realising your younger self still matters, even if life hasn’t been perfect and even if those memories are mixed, complicated, or held at a distance.

For a couple of hours, it felt like stepping back into a world of my own, one I didn’t realise I had missed, but one I’m glad I visited again.

Take Care, 

Nicole x