Why the 2016 trend is less about the past — and more about the anxieties of the present

In the 1920s, the “lost world” of pre-World War I liberalism became a talking point before being overtaken by the Great Depression and the rise of fascism. 

The year 1989 was a similar watershed moment — the collapse of communism in eastern Europe, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the end of the Cold War seemed briefly successful in rupturing the violence of the 20th century.

German historian Reinhart Koselleck offered a useful framework for understanding such moments. He argued that modernity begins when the gap between the “space of experience” — the accumulated past — and the “horizon of expectation” — imagined futures — begins to widen. In the premodern world, the two remained closely aligned. The future was assumed to unfold as a variation on what had come before, captured in the maxim historia magistra vitae: history is the teacher of life.

Modernity, by contrast, is defined by acceleration and rupture. Experience loses its authority as a guide, the future appears open, uncertain and qualitatively different from what has gone before. 

This widening gap, Koselleck argued, produces both momentum and anxiety: history becomes a record of obsolete worlds instead of a repository of lessons. Nostalgia emerges as a response to this dislocation, a way of stabilising the present by reaching for a past that still feels comprehensible.

Seen through this lens, 2016 appears as an inflection point. Brexit and Donald Trump’s first election as the president of the world’s most powerful notion shattered the liberal assumption that history bent reliably towards progress. 

Yet, for all its upsets, the year retained a sense of optimism. The idea that democratic institutions might restrain overreach still felt plausible. The language of “guardrails” had not yet become a euphemism for their failure.

What 2016 really represents

Scroll to 2026. In his second term in office, Trump has suggested in all seriousness that, having been denied a Nobel Peace Prize for his extensive peacemaking efforts, he might as well pursue Greenland instead. A decade ago, this would have been inconceivable. Today, it falls within the operating logic of contemporary geopolitics.

What does it make 2016 then? Not a golden age, not an idyll. Merely a threshold, richly textured. It belongs to the Before Covid era — before the pandemic warped one’s sense of time; before every micro-moment of life, career and leisure was optimised for engagement and monetisation. The pandemic produced what sociologists describe as “present shock” — a state in which crisis becomes permanent and chronology loses meaning. Against this sense of entropy, 2016 stands out as a marker of stability.

Technology sharpens this contrast. In 2016, social media occupied the discursive space that artificial intelligence does today: emergent, powerful, faintly menacing. Critics worried about attention spans, political manipulation, the erosion of the self. Yet, the platforms were recognisably human in scale, still capable of producing shared reference points. Now, culture arrives personalised through optimisation, and the thrill of serendipity is all but gone.

This is why the nostalgia for 2016 is more than just sentimental. There is recognition that 2016 incubated many of the forces that now dominate public life: polarisation, platform monopolies, renewed great-power rivalry. But revisiting it challenges the present’s claim to inevitability and resists the idea that the erosion of common ground is simply the price of progress. Instead, it stands as a reminder that things could have unfolded differently; that, even now, they still might.