Updated: July 27, 2016
Originally Published: Oct. 29, 2005
On the day I turned 20, I received a birthday card from my younger sister. “Wow,” she wrote in her scribbled, uneven handwriting, “I can’t believe you’re 20!” Honestly, I couldn’t believe it either. Turning 20 felt monumental—a mathematical end to my teenage years and a leap into adulthood. At last, I was old enough for someone to be impressed by my age, yet still young enough that their astonishment didn’t sting.
Of course, nothing truly changed on that day. Deep down, I still felt like I was 19, or even 14, and occasionally, 10. Regardless of what the calendar said, I didn’t feel any closer to being an adult. Yet, 20 marked a pivotal moment—a realization that I would never be a teenager again, and that time only moves forward.
I anticipated my 20th college reunion to be rather uneventful. In my more cynical moments, I viewed it as merely a tactic for the school to boost alumni donations and foster a sense of loyalty. After all, graduation was arguably the least meaningful day of our college experience. Ours took place at the football stadium—a venue I rarely frequented during my four years—due to security protocols for our commencement speaker, President Clinton. We had to arrive super early to pass through metal detectors, and despite the pouring rain, no one could bring umbrellas due to the security risk. It felt more like a day of real-life obligations than a celebration of our college years, so marking its anniversary felt contrived.
Yet, there’s a prevailing notion that only those who haven’t outgrown their youth enjoy reunions—people yearning to flaunt their successes or relive their glory days. So, is it uncool to admit I had a blast at mine?
There’s something uniquely special about reconnecting with those who knew you in your formative years. Even if we weren’t the closest friends or had differing opinions, there was an undeniable familiarity. Beneath our conversations about careers, families, love, and regrets flowed a shared understanding: I remember you as you were, when you first began to envision your place in the world. Being around those who remembered that side of me helped me recall it too.
Returning to campus after so many years felt surreal—time both compressed and expanded. I turned a corner and spotted a friend exiting a dorm, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like we all still resided there. We discussed early menopause at the same tables where we once debated one-night stands. I reminisced with a friend about the night she discovered her boyfriend cheated on her with her best friend—the same night I had dyed my hair red with Kool-Aid. I had forgotten the fervor with which we lived our lives back then, believing we would navigate adulthood better than anyone before us. Now, 20 years later, we yearned to escape our grown-up realities and return to the carefree days of our youth. Yes, we had made compromises, many of them, but we were at peace with that.
Under the tent that Friday night, stamping my feet to keep warm, I shared with friends how I spent much of the week before the reunion bent over in my daughter’s room, sewing name labels onto her underwear for sleepaway camp. “I can’t picture you doing that,” one friend remarked, and others nodded in agreement. It surprised me—had I really been so different? What other memories did they hold of me that had faded from my mind?
The weekend unfolded like this, with groups of people piecing together fragments of our shared history as we attempted to create a cohesive narrative. Was that the night you lost your shoes? Or was it junior year? Were you there when I kissed that guy? What was his name again? Memories intertwined and timelines blurred. The past was like a diamond, reflecting different facets depending on the angle we viewed it from.
We wandered the campus differently now. Text messages zipped through the air, straining the network. If cell phones had existed back then, I would have sent endless “where r u?” messages. Gone were the days of aimless wandering and serendipitous encounters; everything was now meticulously organized. Yet our desire to connect remained unchanged.
During lunch on Saturday, one woman shared the heartbreaking story of her father’s passing—a familiar narrative of illness and loss. We listened, honoring her sorrow. “I remember meeting your dad,” someone piped up. “You do?” she asked, surprised and uplifted by the reminder of their shared memory. It struck me how meaningful it was for her to revisit a piece of her past.
I chatted with a guy who had married his college girlfriend after she became pregnant. They’ve been married for 20 years, and I silently wondered what challenges they had faced to reach this point. He smiled as he spoke of their youngest daughter, a competitive log roller. “To succeed, you need balance, core strength, and quick little cat feet,” he said.
As I looked at my friends, I saw the passage of time etched on their faces. The laughter lines were deeper now. The men were evolving into the fathers I once met on parents’ weekend. While I often manage to detach myself from the aging process in my daily life, seeing the familiar faces from my youth reminded me that none of us can escape it. As the weekend progressed, our conversations turned toward heavier topics—addiction, disappointment, and despair. I realized that life doesn’t cater to winners and losers; just because you lose one thing doesn’t mean you won’t lose it all. Some have more, some have less, and the reasons behind it all often elude us.
Each night, I returned to my hotel room, scribbling notes in my journal. No, turning 20 isn’t anything particularly special; it’s no different from being 10, 15, or even 42. Transitions in life rarely announce themselves with a bang; they creep up on you slowly, like a cat nudging you awake in the morning. First, it paws at the door, then climbs up, brushing its whiskers against your sleepy face. Eventually, you’ll get up to feed it, but you might want just a few more moments under the covers before embracing the day ahead.
On Sunday morning, a light rain fell, draping the campus in a veil of melancholy. The vibrant blue skies of Saturday had shifted to gray, and I felt the urge to leave. I didn’t want to go back to campus, stand under a soggy tent, and bid farewell to everyone. Imagining them returning to their complex, fulfilling lives was daunting. I wished to preserve this moment, like fossils trapped in ancient stone. I wanted to believe they would always be here—the people who remembered parts of me I had nearly forgotten. I wanted them to remain so I could always return and draw from that well of memories whenever I needed a refreshing sip.
In summary, returning to my college reunion after 20 years was a bittersweet experience filled with nostalgia and reflection. It reminded me of the connections we share and how our past shapes our present, even as we navigate the complexities of adulthood. The reunion was a celebration of our shared history and the inevitable passage of time, leaving me with a mixture of joy and longing.