Do you know those moments when life feels feather-light? Moments when yesterday, today, or tomorrow don't matter, and you feel that life, with all its possibilities, is still open. As if you were just 16 and the word "future" held no meaning for the present. I had such a moment a week ago when I chatted the night away with old friends on a balmy summer evening. Remarkably: We didn't talk about old times; we simply brought them back.
It's this mixture that defines youth: The exuberant silliness of endless laughter, the feeling of connectedness, the desire to push boundaries, and the fearlessness towards risks because you don't know them yet. Add to that the longing for allure and adulthood – how much you'd rather be 25 than 16. And then again, the ironic distance to oneself when you spend hours styling yourself for a party that barely lasts thirty minutes because you have to be home by 10 PM. Loud and quiet, boastful and vulnerable, naive and arrogant all at once – from all these facets, the mosaic is composed: The feeling of being young.
But youth plays a paradoxical dual role in our society. On the one hand, it is romantically idealized – as a time of boundless possibilities, lightness, and adventure. On the other hand, it has long since become a cutthroat business model. "Forever young" is the advertising promise: Creams that smooth every wrinkle, fitness apps that suggest immortality, and filters that retouch entire life stories on social media. Here, youth becomes a commodity. The French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu (1930–2002), one of the most influential social theorists of the 20th century, coined the term "symbolic capital" for this. It refers to the intangible value of habits or forms of expression that are highly regarded in a society – beauty, style, education, or indeed, youth. You can't really buy youth, but it functions like a currency: Whoever appears young possesses a good that opens up opportunities, signals belonging, and confers attractiveness. Precisely for this reason, this feeling can be so easily translated into products – from beauty serums to lifestyle programs.
When I think of my own youth in the 1980s, despite all crises, it was characterized by a liberal-democratic and open-minded society. We could "just live" because we were threatened by unemployment after our studies anyway, and the future not only seemed far away but was initially on hold. Youth today grows up in a different world. Their lives are meticulously organized, permanently documented, evaluated, and curated thanks to social media. Added to this are the climate crisis, political uncertainty, wars, and a constant feeling of threat. It's no wonder, then, that many young people appear more serious and political at first glance, but also more conformist. Even at eleven, children today seem to "play adults" – decked-out miniatures of their parents, who have to function early. Later, in their teenage years, the relationship often shifts: Then it's the parents who orient themselves by their children – in fashion, language, or digital routines. What Neil Postman once described as the "disappearance of childhood" has shifted: Today, even adulthood seems to be disappearing. Forever Young is the motto of a society that elevates eternal adolescence to an external norm.
Yet youth is above all a time of intense emotions: a phase of life in which life tastes more intensely. In that sense, I find it comforting that this feeling of life is not tied to a birth date. For feelings can be evoked and revived – in encounters, with music, or with scents. Perfume touches us where our memories reside: one spray is enough, and suddenly everything is back – sometimes loud, silly, and carefree, sometimes quiet and hopeful, sometimes rebellious and boundless. Scents can open up the entire resonating space of youthful emotions. And they hold onto what cannot be held onto: The feeling of being young.
