On the day I reached the milestone of turning 20, I was greeted with a birthday card from my younger sibling. “Wow,” he wrote in his uneven, childlike handwriting, “I can’t believe you’re 20!” I shared his sentiment—20 felt significant, marking the end of my teenage years and the onset of adulthood. I was finally at an age that elicited admiration, yet still too young to feel offended by such astonishment.
However, the transition into 20 was largely symbolic. Internally, I often felt like I was still 19, or even younger at times. Regardless of age, I realized that I would never again be a teenager or a child, and that time progressed in only one direction.
As my 20th college reunion approached, I anticipated a similarly uneventful experience. In my more cynical moments, I viewed it as merely a ploy for the institution to boost alumni donations and foster loyalty. Graduation had felt like a hollow celebration—held at the football stadium, a place I frequented little during my years there, due to the need for heightened security for our commencement speaker, President Clinton. We arrived early to navigate metal detectors, and in the pouring rain, umbrellas were prohibited. The chaos of family members pulling us in different directions made graduation seem far removed from the essence of our college experience—more like a rite of passage into the “real world.” Thus, commemorating its anniversary felt arbitrary, a superficial acknowledgment of a largely empty moment.
Yet, conventional wisdom suggests that only those who haven’t moved past adolescence enjoy reunions—individuals seeking to showcase their accomplishments. Is it considered uncool to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed mine?
There’s a unique quality in reconnecting with individuals who shared my youthful days, even if our relationships were superficial. Beneath the discussions of careers, relationships, and regrets lay a profound understanding: we all remembered when we were young, just beginning to envision our place in the world. Being among people who shared that history encouraged us to reflect on it as well.
Returning to campus after many years felt surreal, as if time had compressed; life there seemed both distant and immediate. I turned a corner and spotted a friend exiting a dormitory, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though we still lived there. We sat at the same tables where we once discussed trivial matters like one-night stands and pregnancy scares, now talking about more serious topics like menopause. I recalled the intensity of our youthful experiences, the way we navigated relationships and life plans, convinced we would do things differently and better than those before us. Two decades on, we ironically longed to escape our adult responsibilities and return to the carefree days of our youth. Yes, we had made compromises, but we accepted that reality.
On Friday night, standing under a tent while stamping my feet to keep warm, I confided in friends about how I had spent much of the week preparing for my daughter’s sleepaway camp by sewing name labels onto her clothing. “I can’t imagine you doing that,” one friend remarked, and others nodded in agreement. I was taken aback; was I really that different now? What other aspects of my past had faded from my memory?
Throughout the weekend, conversations flowed, as we attempted to piece together our shared history. Was that the night you misplaced your shoes? Or was it during junior year? Did you witness me kiss that boy? The memories merged, timelines blurred; our past resembled a diamond viewed from varying perspectives.
Navigating the campus felt different now. Text messages buzzed through the air, straining our connectivity. Had we possessed cell phones back then, my messages would have consisted solely of “where r u?” No more spontaneous encounters; everything was meticulously planned. Yet, our intrinsic need for connection endured.
During Saturday’s lunch, one woman recounted the painful experience of losing her father, narrating a familiar tale of illness and loss. We listened, honoring her grief. “I remember meeting your dad,” someone chimed in, prompting a wave of nostalgia that enveloped her. It was heartwarming to see her embrace that memory, reminding us that traces of our past still lingered in this space.
I also spoke with a classmate who had married his college girlfriend after she became pregnant. Their marriage, now spanning 20 years, left me pondering the journey they had traveled, navigating challenges together. He shared stories about their youngest daughter, a competitive log roller, emphasizing the need for balance and agility—a metaphor for life.
As I observed the aging faces of my friends, the lines deepening with laughter, I was confronted with the reality of time passing. The men were evolving into fathers, reminiscent of those I had encountered on campus during parents’ weekend. While I often deluded myself into thinking I was exempt from aging, witnessing my peers reminded me that none of us are immune to the passage of time. As the weekend unfolded, our conversations turned to weightier subjects like addiction and regret. I recognized that life does not adhere to a clear hierarchy of winners and losers; loss and gain are part of the complex fabric of existence.
Returning to my hotel room each night, I jotted down my reflections. There’s nothing inherently significant about turning 20, no distinct marker that sets it apart from any other year. Transitions rarely come with grand announcements; they sneak up on us, much like a cat nudging you awake in the morning—first pawing at the door, then curling up beside you, urging you to rise and embrace the day.
On Sunday morning, a light rain fell, casting a melancholic atmosphere. The vibrant blue skies of Saturday had given way to a gray, humid shroud. Over breakfast, I felt the urge to leave. I wanted to avoid the somber farewell under a soggy tent, imagining my classmates returning to their full, rich lives. I wished to preserve this moment, to keep them all here like fossils in stone, ensuring that the memories of our past could always be revisited. I longed for them to remain, so I could always return and draw from that well of nostalgia whenever I needed a taste of my former self.
In summary, the experience of reconnecting with college friends after two decades offered profound insights into the passage of time, nostalgia, and the complexities of adult life. While we may carry the weight of our experiences, the bonds formed in youth create an enduring connection that transcends time. For those interested in exploring similar journeys of parenthood and self-discovery, resources like this article can provide valuable insights. Additionally, Make a Mom offers expert information on home insemination kits, while UCSF’s fertility resource can answer questions about fertility and pregnancy.