There’s a moment that comes for all of us: standing in the shower or lying awake at night, when an old memory ambushes you. Maybe it’s something you said at a party in 2014. Maybe it’s the way you dressed in high school, a Facebook post from college, the awkward way you confessed a crush. Your face flushes, your stomach tightens, and you mutter to no one, “God, what was I thinking?”
We cringe at our past selves. And as uncomfortable as it feels, that cringing is one of the clearest signs that we’re growing.
Cringe is, at its core, a collision: the person you were and the person you are now staring each other down across time. The fact that you can look back and see the immaturity, the naivety, the awkwardness—that’s not a failure of your character. That’s evidence of transformation.
In psychological terms, this reaction is partly a function of something called “self-discrepancy theory.” It’s the gap between our “actual self” (who we are) and our “ideal self” (who we want to be). When you cringe, you’re catching a glimpse of that gap. And while it stings, it’s also motivation: look how far you’ve come, look how much more you know.
It’s tempting to wish we could go back and edit our timelines, erase the posts, undo the outfits, retract the confessions. But if we did, we’d be robbing ourselves of proof. Proof that we’ve risked things, tried things, dared to care, dared to be seen. Only people who hide from life entirely avoid making mistakes. And that’s a far greater tragedy than looking back and wincing.
The comedian Nathan Fielder once said, “The biggest risk in life is not taking any risks.” It’s a funny line, but it’s also painfully true. Every cringey moment in your past is a breadcrumb trail of the risks you took to become who you are. You were willing to say something, to wear something, to declare yourself, even if it fell flat. Even if it wasn’t cool or clever or perfectly curated.
In an age of constant self-documentation, it can feel like every misstep is permanent. But here’s the secret: no one is paying as much attention to your past as you are. People are far too busy cringing at their own histories. The spotlight you think is following you is just your own mind, replaying old reels.
And the things you cringe at? The people who loved you back then probably didn’t notice. Or they found those quirks endearing. Or they forgot entirely. What remains is you: older, wiser, still learning. Still cringing—and still growing.
Maybe the goal isn’t to eliminate the cringe. Maybe the goal is to let it remind you: you were bold enough to try. And you’re bold enough to keep going.
So next time that memory rises up, instead of flinching away, smile at it. Thank that version of you for getting you here. Thank them for their imperfect courage. And then move forward, a little softer, a little stronger, knowing that in a few years, you’ll probably cringe at today too. And that’s exactly how it should be.