The Week I Met Him, the Commodores Were No. 1

Why the songs we loved when we were young can bring back more than a memory.

The other day, my husband read me the Billboard Top 20 for the week ending August 19, 1978—our first week at college, the week we met.

The Commodores were No. 1 with “Three Times a Lady.” Frankie Valli’s “Grease” was No. 2. Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” was right behind it.

Once he got done sharing the list, I felt something hard to describe. Not just, Oh, I remember that song, but a warm rush somewhere deep inside me. Then, for the next few hours, I couldn’t stop thinking about who I was and who I was about to become.

What was that feeling?

An Oprah Daily piece about nostalgia landed in my feed last week. It was written by a Gen Z woman with a wallet full of ticket stubs, which I found charming. But it also made me think: at this point, most of us are moving around stacks of boxes with decades of evidence of a life well-lived. Vinyl records, ornaments passed down from grandma, VHS tapes of movies. My mother’s recipes, scratched out in her elegant but bossy handwriting. There are stories attached to each of these.

I’m not sentimental. But this Billboard list felt like an exception. Nostalgia is one of the ways we connect to the person we were. The warmth I felt when my husband read that chart to me has a scientific explanation, and that’s better news than simply saying “looking back feels nice.”

And for women our age? We have quite an archive.

Why 1978 Still Has Me

We tend to recall autobiographical memories that cluster around ages 15 to 25. This phenomenon is called the reminiscence bump, which makes sense since this is the time when our identities are still being formed.

Music sits right in the middle of all that.

A song is never just a song when it belongs to those years. It’s a shortcut back to a particular version of yourself. When my husband read that list aloud, he was unlocking the feeling of being 18 again, hopeful and at the front end of a big life. That was 48 years ago. We married in 1983, and we’re still here.

Lionel Richie’s delivery of “Three Times a Lady” with that waltz rhythm offered me the kind of grand, grown-up devotion my 18-year-old self could barely imagine. Not simply romance but being seen and chosen. “Grease” felt like becoming bold enough to enter the world, leaving girlhood behind with a whole life waiting beyond college. And Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” delivered an anthem: stay in the dance long enough to claim what you wanted.

Of course, these songs don’t let go. Your brain is built for it. Nostalgic music calls up autobiographical memories and activates brain networks involved in memory and self-reflection. And here’s the part I didn’t expect: In a study of older adults, the songs that produced the strongest emotion created the most personal memories, almost perfectly in step, and that link appears to be more prevalent in us than it is in the young. The archive doesn’t fade. It sharpens.

That Warm Feeling? It’s Real.

When I said those songs gave me a warm feeling inside, I wasn’t speaking metaphorically.

Researchers have found that people report more nostalgia on colder days and in colder rooms. In studies, nostalgic music was associated with feeling physically warmer; people asked to recall a nostalgic event judged a cold room as warmer than people asked to remember an ordinary event. In another experiment, people thinking nostalgically tolerated ice-cold water for longer.

Researchers think that nostalgia can help us mentally recreate a state of comfort we once knew.

I love that.

A song from 1978 can’t actually heat the room, but it can bring you back to an inner place where you feel hopeful and known. For a moment, your body gets the message that you’re safe and have a sense of belonging.

My Father, on a Loop

When I can’t fall asleep, I replay two or three memories from my childhood with my father. One of them is very specific. I’m sitting in his workshop, on a green shiny Naugahyde bar stool, pulled up as close to his raised workbench as I could get. He always had a small radio playing softly in the background, tuned to his favorite—any song Olivia Newton-John was singing that year. God, he loved her. I would sit for hours watching him work on a birdhouse, a dollhouse, whatever he was making that week. The stool, the radio, and the smell of sawdust were what researchers would call retrieval cues—small keys that unlock the memory you don’t want to lose.

I run this scene and other similar ones over like reruns. They’re the last images I want in my head before I fall asleep. I don’t force myself to think of them. They’re simply there, waiting for me when the house is quiet and sleep will not come.

There’s science around this, too, though I almost hesitate to mention it because the experience feels so personal. Nostalgia can create what researchers call self-continuity: a felt connection between who you were and who you are now. It also tends to be social. The memories that stay with us are often memories of being with somebody—being cared for and part of a family’s story. Research links nostalgia to social connectedness, which in turn can strengthen a sense of continuity and meaning.

Maybe that’s why those nighttime memories work for me. I’m not going backward. I’m returning to a place where I felt seen and cared for. Memory isn’t a video recording. It shifts a little every time we replay it. A memory I’ve revisited for decades is partly a memory of the last time I remembered it. That doesn’t make it less true. It makes it mine.

Visit, Don’t Move In

The past is a brilliant editor. We tend not to replay the disappointments or the awkward moments. I find that the trick is to visit the past without asking it to replace the present. Instead, let it warm you and remind you of everything that brought you here.

I welcomed my husband’s interruption. Revisiting the chart wasn’t just a reminder but a map of my coming-of-age story. First: be cherished. Then: be bold enough to enter it. Finally: stay in the dance until you choose otherwise.

And I’m not sorry about a single thing that came after.

Find the chart from the week you met your special person, and tell me your No. 1 song.

Want to go back to August 1978 with me?
I made a Spotify playlist with all 20 songs from the Billboard chart the week we met.

Listen to the playlist.