On my 20th birthday, I received a card from my younger sibling, Jake, who wrote in his uneven handwriting, “Wow, I can’t believe you’re 20!” I shared his astonishment. Turning 20 felt monumental—marking the end of my teenage years and the dawning of adulthood. It was a time when my age inspired admiration, yet I still felt youthful enough not to be offended by it.
Despite the significance society places on milestones, I realized nothing fundamentally shifted on that day. Inside, I still felt like I was 19, or sometimes even younger. The calendar may have turned, but I was still grappling with the complexities of adulthood. It was in this moment that I first recognized I would never again be a teenager or a child, and that time inexorably moved forward.
When I approached my 20th college reunion, I expected a similar sense of mundanity. In my more cynical moments, I viewed it as a ploy for the college to boost alumni donations and foster loyalty. Graduation, after all, was hardly the most meaningful event—it took place in a football stadium, hardly a venue I frequented during my college years, and was overshadowed by the presence of President Clinton as our commencement speaker. We arrived early for security checks in the pouring rain, forced to leave umbrellas behind. At that moment, graduation felt more like a nod to adulthood than a true celebration of our college experience.
Yet, the general belief is that only those who haven’t moved on find joy in reunions. So, is it uncool to admit I had a wonderful time?
Reconnecting with those who knew me in my formative years is an experience unlike any other. Even if we weren’t particularly close back then, there was a shared intimacy in our collective history—an understanding that we had once stood at the precipice of adulthood together, dreaming about what life could be. Being in their presence rekindled those memories for me.
Returning to campus after so many years, time felt fluid—both distant and immediate. I turned a corner and spotted an old friend leaving a dormitory, and for a brief moment, it was as if we still lived there. We found ourselves discussing menopause at the same tables where we once nervously shared stories of one-night stands. I reminisced about the night my friend discovered her boyfriend had cheated on her with her best friend, coinciding with my impulsive decision to dye my hair with Kool-Aid. I had forgotten the passion with which we navigated love and life back then, convinced we would chart a course unlike anyone before us. Two decades later, we yearned for the carefree days of our youth, even as we acknowledged the compromises we had made along the way.
As I stood under the reunion tent, stamping my feet to keep warm, I recounted how I had spent the days leading up to this event sewing name labels onto my daughter’s clothes for sleepaway camp. “I can’t picture you doing that,” one friend remarked, and I was taken aback. Is that really what I had become? What other fragments of my past had I forgotten?
The weekend unfolded in a series of conversations, each person piecing together fragments of our shared history. “Was that the day you lost your shoes?” Or was it junior year? Memories intertwined, creating a mosaic of our collective past.
As we wandered the campus, our communication had shifted to a flurry of text messages—if only we had smartphones back then. The spontaneity of our encounters had given way to scheduled meet-ups. Still, our desire to connect endured.
During lunch, one woman shared the heartbreaking story of her father’s passing, a familiar narrative of illness and loss. We listened, honoring her grief. “I remember meeting your dad,” someone chimed in, and her eyes lit up with the recollection. It served as a poignant reminder that those we’ve lost are still present in the stories we share.
I spoke with someone who became a young father during college, still married two decades later. As he shared tales of their youngest daughter’s competitive log-rolling, I marveled at the resilience needed to navigate that path.
Our faces may have aged, laughter lines deepening, but seeing my friends from those early days reminded me that we are all subject to time’s relentless passage. As the reunion progressed, our conversations turned to heavier matters—addiction, regret, and the complexities of life. I learned that life doesn’t have neat winners or losers; rather, it’s a tapestry of experiences, often unpredictable and unwarranted.
That night, I returned to my hotel room and jotted down my thoughts. There’s really nothing inherently significant about turning 20—much like 10, 15, or even 42. Transitions often creep up on you quietly, like a cat nudging you awake as the day begins.
On Sunday morning, a gentle rain added a layer of melancholy to my feelings. After the bright skies of Saturday, the gray clouds felt heavy. As I breakfasted alone in the hotel, I resolved to leave. I wasn’t ready to return to campus and witness the farewells, to see friends return to their lives—rich and complex as they were. I longed to keep them all here, like fossils preserved in stone, forever accessible, reminding me of the person I once was.
In this reflective journey, it’s essential to remember that the essence of our past never truly fades; it simply evolves, waiting for us to revisit it.
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Summary
This article reflects on the experience of attending a 20-year college reunion, exploring themes of nostalgia, the passage of time, and the connections forged in youth. Through conversations and shared memories, the author contemplates personal growth, relationships, and the bittersweet nature of revisiting the past.
Keyphrase: college reunion reflections
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