On my 20th birthday, I received a card from my younger brother that read, “Wow, I can’t believe you’re 20!” I was taken aback. Twenty felt monumental—a clear line marking the end of my teenage years and the commencement of adulthood. I was at that sweet spot where my age impressed others, yet I still felt young enough to enjoy their amazement without feeling insulted.
Of course, when that birthday arrived, nothing fundamentally changed—inside, I still felt like the 19-year-old I had been, or at times, even the 14-year-old me. Despite what the calendar said, I was still navigating the uncertainty of growing up. It was during this time that I first grasped the reality of time’s relentless march; I’d never again have the label of “teenager” or “child.”
As I approached my 20th college reunion, I anticipated it would be just as uneventful. In my more cynical moments, I dismissed it as merely a scheme for the college to boost alumni donations and foster loyalty. Graduation, after all, had felt like the most trivial milestone of our college journey. Our ceremony took place at the football stadium, a venue I rarely frequented, primarily because we had to accommodate President Clinton’s security needs. We were herded through metal detectors, and due to the rain, umbrellas were prohibited. With family members pulling us in different directions, graduation felt less like a celebration of our college experience and more like a chaotic entry into the real world—making the idea of celebrating its anniversary seem arbitrary.
Conventional wisdom suggests that only those who haven’t matured enjoy reunions—those wanting to flaunt their successes or relive their glory days. So, is it considered uncool to admit that I actually had a fantastic time at mine?
Reconnecting with people who knew you at a younger age creates an unparalleled intimacy. Even if our relationships were tenuous or marked by indifference, there was an undeniable bond. Beneath our discussions about jobs, families, and life choices, an undercurrent flowed: “I remember you before the world shaped you.” Being in the presence of those who shared that history ignited my own memories of innocence and aspiration.
Returning to campus after all those years, time felt both fleeting and eternal. I rounded a corner to see an old friend exiting a dormitory, and for a split second, it was as if we were still students there. We spoke at the same tables where we once discussed youthful escapades, now sharing experiences of adulthood. I remembered the night my friend discovered her boyfriend’s infidelity, a night that coincidentally marked my own hair dyeing adventure with Kool-Aid. I had forgotten how passionately we lived those days, believing we could outdo those who came before us. Now, two decades later, we longed to shed our adult responsibilities and recapture that carefree spirit. We had made compromises along the way, but we were at peace with that.
Under the tent on Friday night, I found myself stamping my feet against the cold ground as I recounted my week of sewing name labels into my daughter’s clothing for sleepaway camp. “I can’t picture you doing that,” one friend remarked, and I was taken aback. This was who I am now—had I really changed that much? What else about myself had I forgotten over the years?
Throughout the weekend, we formed small clusters, each person piecing together fragments of our shared history. Was that the night you lost your shoes? Or was it sophomore year? Did you witness my first kiss? Names and timelines blurred as we examined our past like a diamond viewed from different facets.
Navigating the campus now was a different experience. Messages zipped through the air, and I thought of how, back in the day, I would have sent a barrage of “where r u?” texts if we had smartphones. No longer did we wander aimlessly, our encounters now meticulously planned. Yet, the desire to reconnect remained unchanged.
During a Saturday lunch, one woman shared the heart-wrenching story of her father’s passing, a painfully familiar narrative of illness and loss. We listened, honoring her grief. “I remember meeting your dad,” someone chimed in, and her face lit up with the memory of a moment she had long forgotten. It was touching to see her bask in the warmth of that recollection, knowing her father’s essence lingered in our shared space.
I spoke with a classmate who became a father while still in college, and they are still happily married today, navigating the complexities of life together. As he spoke of their youngest daughter, a competitive log roller, he noted, “You need balance, core strength, and nimble little cat feet.”
As I looked around, I noticed the changes in my friends—deeper lines around their eyes, a transformation that marked their journey into parenthood. In my everyday life, I often manage to detach from the reality of aging, but seeing my old friends reminded me that time spares no one. Our conversations grew more profound, touching on themes of addiction, regret, and heartache. I realized that life isn’t about winning or losing; it’s a complex tapestry where successes and failures intertwine without any clear logic.
At night, I returned to my hotel room, jotting down thoughts in my notebook. Ultimately, turning 20 isn’t inherently special—there’s little that sets it apart from 10, 15, or even 42. Transitions often arrive quietly, creeping in like a cat nudging you awake. First, it’s a gentle paw on the door, followed by a soft brush of whiskers against your cheek. Eventually, you’ll rise to meet the day, but sometimes, you just want a few more moments of peace.
On Sunday morning, a light drizzle hung in the air, and I felt a wave of nostalgia wash over me. The vibrant blue skies of Saturday had turned gray, mirroring my reluctance to leave. As I sat at breakfast, I decided it was time to go. I didn’t want to face the melancholy of saying goodbye under a wet tent, nor did I want to think about everyone returning to their intricate, full lives. I wished to preserve this moment, keeping my friends as they were—fossils etched in time, a reminder of the version of myself that I had nearly forgotten. I wanted them to remain in this space, so I could always return and draw from that well of memories whenever I needed to.
In summary, the experience of revisiting old friends and memories at my 20th college reunion offered a poignant reminder of our shared past and the inevitable march of time. It highlighted the importance of connection and the bittersweet nature of nostalgia as we navigate our adult lives.
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