GRUMPY, GLORIOUS, AND SLIGHTLY OUT OF TOUCH 👵🏼

A LOVING RANT ABOUT GENERATIONS, NOSTALGIA, AND THE MYTH OF THE GOOD OLD DAYS

The Eternal Grumble

At nearly 58, I’m officially old enough to roll my eyes at loud music in public spaces, sigh audibly at fashion trends that look suspiciously like my teenage wardrobe, and use the phrase “back in my day” without even a trace of irony. And I catch myself doing it. Often. Sometimes mid-sentence. And I’m not entirely proud of it—but there’s also a strange kind of joy in embracing your inner grump. A badge of honour, perhaps.

Because let’s be honest: Every generation believes the world is going to hell in a handbasket, ideally woven by someone under the age of 25 who refuses to make eye contact, speaks in acronyms, and doesn’t seem to know how to boil an egg. We say things like:
“They have no respect!”
“No initiative!”
“No grit!”
And of course, the golden classic:
“If I had behaved like that at their age, I wouldn’t have survived to tell the tale.”

Sound familiar?

I hear it everywhere—from neighbours, relatives, and random men at the bakery who look personally offended by a teenager’s haircut. There’s this shared nostalgia, this collective sigh for the good old days—a time when, allegedly, people were kind, hard-working, and raised properly, children said please and thank you, men were virtuous, women were pure, and nobody ever locked their front door because, of course, everyone was too polite to steal.

But let’s pause the sepia-toned slideshow for a moment and ask: was it really that good? And more importantly, what exactly are we afraid of losing?

I’ll admit, I sometimes catch myself teetering on the edge of generational snobbery—but then I remember one of the most important promises I made to myself while raising my children: Try to remember how it felt to be their age.
And believe me, I often counted my blessings.

Not because I was particularly wild (though I had my moments), but because the selective memory of adulthood tends to airbrush out all the uncertainty, rebellion, and the desperate need to be understood that defined those younger years. I didn’t want to raise my children through the lens of who I had become—I wanted to raise them with compassion for who they were becoming, sometimes more and at times less successfully.

So this post isn’t a sermon or a scolding. It’s a curious stroll through the garden of generational grumbling. A lovingly sarcastic exploration of nostalgia, youth, technology, and the strange comfort of shaking our heads at the world… even as we scroll through it on our smartphones.

If you’ve ever shaken your fist at a cloud, stared in horror at TikTok, or found yourself muttering “what is wrong with kids these days?”—congratulations. You’re in good company. And maybe, just maybe, you’re a little more glorious than grumpy after all. I guess every generation believes they reinvented the wheel!

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Nothing New Under the Sun – The History of the Grumble

Let’s get one thing straight right from the very start: this whole “kids these days” thing?
Not new.
Not modern.
Not even remotely original.

It’s practically ancient. Literally.

One of my favourite (and admittedly over-quoted) examples comes from the great philosopher Socrates, around 400 BC, who allegedly grumbled:

“The children now love luxury; they have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders and love chatter in place of exercise…”
Sound familiar? It’s practically the mission statement of every Facebook group named “Things Were Better in the ’70s.”

And it doesn’t stop there. Fast-forward a few hundred years, and the ancient Egyptians were at it, too. A tomb inscription bemoans how “young people no longer obey their parents, and everyone is writing a book.” (Imagine their horror today, where not only is everyone writing a book, everyone’s publishing it themselves and promoting it on Instagram.)

In Victorian times, moral handwringing was practically a national pastime. There were widespread concerns that novels (yes, novels) would rot young minds. Dancing was deemed scandalous. Women who expressed opinions were labelled hysterical. And don’t get me started on the dangers of the waltz—it was practically pornographic.

The Roaring Twenties? Debauchery.
The Rock 'n' Roll of the 50s? Corruption of the innocent.
The free love of the 60s and 70s? Societal collapse.
The grunge of the 90s? Apathy and moral decay.
And now? Gen Z and their TikToks are clearly ushering in the end of civilisation. With filters.

Apparently, the youth have been ruining the world since about 400 BC—and doing a splendid job of it, generation after generation.

So what’s going on here? Why are we so consistent in our criticism across centuries?

The answer, I think, is both simple and slightly inconvenient:
Change makes people uncomfortable.

Each generation defines itself, at least in part, against the one that came before. It’s how identity forms. And when you’re no longer the one pushing the boundaries—but the one enforcing them—it’s jarring. You look up one day and realise you don’t understand the music, the slang, or why someone needs ten different types of milk. It’s confusing. Sometimes even threatening. And so, like clockwork, we reach for the comfort blanket of nostalgia.

Back in our day, we say, things were clearer. Simpler. Better.
Of course, we quietly skip over the racism, the sexism, the repression, the rotary phones, and the inability to Google anything. We zoom in on selective sweetness, dial down the messiness, and call it “the good old days.”

But maybe the grumble isn’t really about them—maybe it’s about us. About our fear that we’ve become obsolete, our values outdated, our wisdom dismissed. Maybe it’s about loss: of youth, of certainty, of cultural control.

It’s oddly comforting to think we were the last generation to get it right. That we hold the secret recipe for character, resilience, and common sense. But history tells a different story. One where each generation was accused of destroying civilisation—and yet, miraculously civilisation somehow carried on.

So let’s stop pretending this is new. It’s not.
It’s human.
And maybe, just maybe, there’s something liberating about admitting that we’re not the first to feel this way—and we won’t be the last.

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The Age of Convenience – Blessing or Curse?

Let’s give credit where it’s due: we live in an age of jaw-dropping, delicious, time-saving convenience.

Want dinner? Tap your phone and someone delivers it to your door—hot, sliced, and possibly with extra cheese.
Need a new pair of shoes? They’ll arrive tomorrow. Maybe even today.
Curious about whether sloths can swim or how to fix a leaking tap? You can find out in 0.4 seconds. (Spoiler: yes, they can. And no, I still haven’t fixed mine.)

Technology has given us miracles our grandparents couldn’t even dream of. We no longer have to churn butter, hand-wash clothes, or send handwritten letters that took weeks to arrive (and might have been intercepted by a horse thief along the way).
We’ve been freed from many physical burdens, and that’s something to celebrate.

But for every burden we've shed, a new one has quietly slipped in.

Sure, we’ve got fewer broken backs—yet we’ve also got more broken attention spans.
We’ve traded long walks for scrolling marathons.
We don’t sit with boredom anymore—we outsource it to entertainment within seconds.
And in the time it took to read this paragraph, half of us probably checked a notification.

Let’s face it: we’ve become allergic to delay.

Our tolerance for discomfort—waiting, wondering, not knowing—has all but vanished. We want everything now. Answers, applause, packages, partners. Preferably same-day delivery. (And if it’s not here in two hours, we’re already composing an angry email in our heads.)

It’s not just the speed. It’s the ease.
And while comfort itself isn’t a villain—after all, I love my fast WiFi as much as the next person—when comfort becomes the goal, rather than the reward, something subtle begins to erode.

We stop building resilience.
We avoid challenge.
We mistake friction for failure.
And we start to believe that anything that isn’t instantly gratifying must not be worth doing.

Why build character when you can build a playlist—and have an existential crisis over your third overpriced avocado toast this week?

Our world is increasingly curated for comfort. But the human spirit isn’t built for constant ease.
We grow through discomfort, through problem-solving, through not having everything we want exactly when we want it.

I’m not calling for a return to handwashing clothes or chasing chickens for Sunday dinner. But I do think it’s worth asking: What happens to us when life becomes too easy too often?

We risk becoming emotionally flabby. Spiritually underfed. Intellectually impatient.

Convenience, when used well, creates space for rest, for reflection, for real connection. But if we’re not careful, we fill that space with noise. With dopamine hits. With endless swipes and surface conversations. We lose the art of staying present in complexity and start seeking the fastest escape.

So yes, technology is a gift.
But like all gifts, it depends on how we use it.

If it frees us to focus on what really matters—relationships, purpose, growth—it’s a blessing.
If it numbs us, isolates us, and erodes our ability to sit with discomfort or curiosity, then it quietly becomes a curse.

And the hardest part?
Most of the time, we don’t even notice. Until something goes wrong.
Until – pure horror - the Wi-Fi goes out.

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Are the Young Really Lost – or Just Navigating a Different Map?

Let’s address the elephant in the TikTok room.

There’s a common refrain that echoes through dinner tables, news columns, and WhatsApp group chats:
“The young people today are lost.”
They’re anxious. Depressed. Entitled. Confused.
They want everything handed to them.
They have no grit.
No manners.
No idea what a landline is.

But here’s a provocative thought: what if they’re not lost at all?
What if they’re just navigating a world that older generations helped create, without a compass we’ve remembered to pass on?

Yes, there’s a very real mental health crisis. Rising anxiety. Depression. Burnout before age 25. The statistics are heartbreaking. But to chalk it all up to “lack of character” is not just unhelpful—it’s also unfair.

Let’s pause and take in the context. We live in an age of extraordinary abundance—of options, freedoms, voices, and platforms. But this also comes with extraordinary confusion. The paradox is striking: when everything is possible, it becomes almost impossible to choose something and commit to it.

They are told they can be anything. But no one teaches them how to handle the grief of not being everything.

The world screams for attention, while purpose whispers softly and is often unheard.

Now, let’s talk about entitlement. It’s become a buzzword—usually hurled as an insult: “They think the world owes them something!”
But what if this entitlement is not entirely of their own making?

Because here's the truth: much of today’s entitlement isn’t born—it’s taught.
Through political rhetoric. Through systems that reward complaint over contribution. Through ideologies that frame effort as oppression and success as unfair privilege.

Hard work is no longer universally celebrated—it’s sometimes treated as naïve.
Discipline? Old-fashioned.
Struggle? Pathologised.
And values like personal responsibility, humility, and consistency are often drowned out by louder mantras: “You deserve it all”, “Your truth is the only truth”, “If it’s hard, quit and protect your energy.”

There’s a subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) shift in what we glorify.
We’ve replaced aspiration with victimhood.
We’ve substituted self-reflection with public outrage.
We offer trophies for participation and then wonder why resilience is in short supply.

And this doesn’t just confuse young people—it destabilises them. It creates a world where effort is optional, truth is relative, and validation is a social currency earned through performance rather than principle.

Are there young people who are genuinely entitled? Of course. Just as there are older people who are bitter, rigid, and blame everyone but themselves. But entitlement thrives where clarity is absent. And clarity is something we have not done a great job of offering.

Let’s not forget that we—as the generation who raised them—have a part to play.
We encouraged individuality, but sometimes forgot to teach community.
We pushed for achievement, but didn’t always model contentment.
We gave them tools but rarely showed them how to wield them with wisdom.

I often think about how disorienting it must be to be twenty-something in today’s world. The rules keep shifting. The language changes daily. What was once celebrated can be “cancelled” the next morning. Even humour is dangerous territory.

And through it all, the question that quietly eats at their core:
“Am I enough?”

Here’s what I believe: young people are not apathetic. They care deeply. Many of them are questioning things we’ve long taken for granted—mental well-being, emotional honesty, and the systems that quietly dictate whose voices matter. But they’re also tired. Overstimulated. Drowning in mixed messages.

And when older generations pile on criticism without offering understanding, we deepen the divide.

So maybe it’s time to shift the lens. Maybe they’re not lazy. Maybe they’re cautious—unsure how to navigate a world that feels simultaneously too much and never enough.
Maybe they’re not lost. Maybe they’re just using a different map, one with no legend, no instructions, and too many detours.

What they need from us is not sarcasm or nostalgia.
They need clarity. Encouragement. A compass, not a lecture.
They need to be reminded that freedom comes with responsibility, that resilience is earned, and that meaning is something you build, not something you scroll to find.

And above all, maybe what they need is for us to sit beside them, without judgment, and say:
"It's messy out here. I know. Let's figure it out together."

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The Tyranny of Nostalgia

Ah, nostalgia. That warm, golden glow that wraps the past in soft focus and conveniently edits out all the inconvenient truths. It’s the Instagram filter of memory — smoothing the wrinkles, sharpening the colours, and cropping out the chaos.

We’ve all heard the refrain: “Life was simpler back then.” And sure — there were fewer passwords to remember, no doomscrolling at midnight, and your fridge didn’t yell at you for being left open. But let’s not kid ourselves. Simpler doesn’t always mean better.

Because alongside that simplicity were also some fairly uncomfortable truths: narrow expectations of how to live, little tolerance for difference, the quiet suffering of those who didn’t fit the mould, and a social script that rarely left room for deviation.
Respect? Often confused with obedience.
Grit? Sometimes just silence in the face of pressure or pain.
The so-called “good old days” weren’t always that kind or pleasant.

That’s the tricky thing about memory — it’s selective. And nostalgia is rarely about the era itself, but about how we felt in that era. Young. Hopeful. Less tired, less responsible, perhaps. It’s not the time we miss — it’s who we were when we lived in it.

But the danger lies in elevating the past to some moral high ground from which to judge the present. When we mythologise our own upbringing, we unconsciously diminish the reality of today’s youth. We frame their struggles as weakness, their questions as rebellion, and their desire for change as entitlement.

Let’s talk about that word a bit more — entitlement. It’s thrown around a lot, usually by people who equate emotional expression with whining, and I admit having used it quite a bit myself. But perhaps what looks like entitlement is often a cry for meaning in a world that constantly changes the rules. A world that tells young people to find their truth while monetising their every move. A world that dangles freedom and then buries it under debt, algorithms, and impossible beauty standards.

Of course, some degree of entitlement does exist — and it’s been coddled, yes, by parts of modern culture and politics. There is a difference between healthy self-worth and expecting applause for simply showing up. But even here, context matters. If young people seem disillusioned with hard work, perhaps it’s because they’ve watched generations before them burn out, break down, or be betrayed by systems they were told to trust.

We say we value effort, but we reward visibility. We preach patience, but elevate instant success. And when things feel unfair, confusing, or meaningless, nostalgia offers a seductive escape. A return to the “way things were” — or at least how we like to remember them.

But here's the truth: the past wasn’t perfect. It was just different. And sometimes, holding onto a glorified version of it stops us from seeing what’s actually in front of us — or worse, from helping to shape a better future.

So maybe the challenge isn’t to go back, but to go forward with a bit more humility. To trade our righteous recollections for real conversations. To listen to the fears behind the frustration, and the hope behind the noise.

Because perhaps — just perhaps — the kids aren’t lost at all. Maybe they’re just walking a path we never had the courage or necessity to take.

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Bridging the Gap – Not Judging It

Here’s a radical idea: What if we stopped comparing generations like rival football teams and started connecting like… well, fellow humans trying to figure it all out?

Because let’s face it—every generation thinks it had it harder, smarter, better, simpler. The older ones roll their eyes at TikTok trends and avocado obsessions, while the younger ones smirk at our landlines, our attachment to paper, and the fact that we still use ellipses in text messages. And while it’s tempting to sigh and say “Kids these days…,” the truth is: the bridge between us isn’t built on judgment. It’s built on curiosity – something I have been thinking and writing about a lot lately.

I’ve had moments—beautiful, unexpected moments—where I’ve learned from someone half my age. Not just about how to fix my phone or finally understand what “yeet” means (which, for the record, is what the youth shout when hurling something across the room with great force and zero remorse—emotionally or physically), but about resilience, creativity, and entirely new ways of seeing the world. Turns out, you can launch a water bottle, a bad mood, or your existential crisis—just shout "yeet" and let go.

Like the time I watched a teenager calmly talk their anxious friend through a panic attack in the middle of a crowded street. No drama, no “man up” nonsense—just presence, permission to feel, and a hand held without hesitation. It was tender, real, and far wiser than some of the advice I’ve heard from so-called experts.

And then there was the moment I tried to teach my son how to iron a shirt. The first time he stared at the iron like it was a medieval torture device. We laughed, I showed him, he showed me things I did not know, and both of us walked away a little humbler and wiser.

Turns out, the kid who can’t write cursive might just teach you how to back up your phone.

But we only get these moments if we choose to meet each other halfway.

Instead of assuming the worst (laziness, ignorance, entitlement), what if we asked more questions? What if we were less attached to being right and more invested in being open? What if we dropped the “back in my day” act for long enough to ask, “What’s it like being your age right now?” It does somehow keep coming down to showing up and showing curiosity.

Respect, after all, isn’t a one-way street. It flows both ways—or it dries up completely. The best conversations I’ve had with younger people weren’t the ones where I lectured, but the ones where I listened. Where I was willing to admit I didn’t have all the answers. And, more importantly, where they felt safe enough to tell me their truth without fear of being dismissed.

We’re not here to mould each other into replicas of ourselves. We’re here to witness, to learn, to laugh, and yes, sometimes to disagree. But from a place of shared humanity, not hierarchical nostalgia.

So here’s the mini call to action, no hashtags required:

Ask more. Assume less. Be curious.
Because the gap we keep talking about? Maybe it’s not meant to be judged.
Maybe it’s meant to be crossed.

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The World Isn’t Ending – It’s Evolving

So here we are. Somewhere between “kids these days...” and “back in my day...”
Straddling the fence between legacy and progress, nostalgia and noise, dial-up and download.

We’re old enough to have grown up without Google, and young enough to still get Google-searched. Old enough to remember when phones had cords, and young enough to wonder why the youth don’t call at all.

And yet, in all our grumbling and glory, we forget something quite simple and deeply humbling:
Every generation is a cocktail of confusion, courage, rebellion, and reinvention.

Ours was no exception – even if we want to believe otherwise.
We just like to retell it in sepia tones, with better music and fewer disclaimers.

Yes, the world feels faster. Louder. Crazier.
But maybe it’s not worse. Maybe it’s just… unfamiliar.
Maybe it’s not falling apart — maybe it’s rearranging itself. And rearranging, as we know, tends to be messy.

The truth is, every age has feared the next.
The Greeks thought theatre would corrupt morality.
The Victorians feared books would make women too independent.
The ‘50s worried that rock ‘n’ roll would destroy civilisation.
Now we’re suspicious of TikTok and almond milk.

So let’s take a few deep breaths.

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Let’s remember that the youth are not our replacements — they’re our continuation.
They carry the stories we forgot, adapt the ideas we clung to, and—if we let them—teach us how to back up our phones, fix our hearts, and laugh a little more freely.

This isn’t a eulogy for the past. It’s a gentle nudge to loosen our grip on it and perhaps stop idealising it too much.

Because maybe the real bridge between generations isn’t built with lectures or lists, but with humility, humour, and the kind of listening that makes both sides feel less alone.

Let’s grumble, by all means — it’s good for the soul. But let’s also grow. Let’s look across the generational divide with less suspicion and more curiosity. Let’s ask a few more questions. Let’s give a little credit. Let’s remember what it felt like to be young, overwhelmed, and certain that no one over thirty could possibly understand.

Because if we want respect, we’ll have to give some.
If we want connection, we’ll need to build it.
And if we want to stay relevant, we might have to admit that maybe — just maybe — the world doesn’t need to look exactly like the one we came from in order to still be worth living in.

So no, the world isn’t ending. It’s evolving.

And the good news?
So can we.

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🎶My Song for you

I couldn’t think of a more perfect song to accompany this post than My Generation by The Who…

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For more good music, go to this Spotify playlist where you can find all the songs from the Change & Evolve Letters!

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📚My Poem for you

Is by William Butler Yeats (1865—1939)

To A Child Dancing Upon The Shore

DANCE there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water's roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool's triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?

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👀Impression

Lake Starnberg in all its glory…

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So tell me—what’s something you’ve learned from someone of a different generation that surprised you, challenged you, or even made you laugh out loud?

Let me know your thoughts in the comments, leave a ❤️ or send me a message. I always love hearing from you.

Wishing you a fabulous weekend wherever you are.

Yours

Tanja 🤗

PS. You can now also find my podcast on Spotify

Change & Evolve and feel free to get in touch