On my 20th birthday, I received a card from my younger sister, scribbled in her childlike handwriting: “Wow, I can’t believe you’re 20!” I was equally astonished. Turning 20 felt monumental—it marked the end of my teenage years and the onset of adulthood. I was finally at an age where my sibling thought it was impressive, yet still youthful enough not to be insulted by their surprise.
However, the moment I crossed into my twenties didn’t change how I felt inside. I still identified with my 19, 14, or even 10-year-old self. No matter what the calendar declared, I didn’t feel any closer to actual adulthood. Yet, at 20, I recognized for the first time that I would never again be a teenager or a child. Time, it seemed, only marched forward.
As my 20-year college reunion approached, I anticipated a rather unremarkable experience. In my more cynical moments, I viewed it as merely a tactic for the college to boost alumni donations and foster loyalty. Graduation, after all, was hardly the most meaningful event in our college journey. Our ceremony was held at the football stadium—a place I rarely frequented—due to the security needs of our commencement speaker, President Clinton. The early arrival for security checks and the pouring rain, which forced us to leave our umbrellas behind, made for a less-than-ideal send-off. Graduation felt more like a rite of passage into the real world than a celebration of our college experience, rendering the reunion feel somewhat trivial.
Despite the stereotype that only those who haven’t moved on from adolescence enjoy reunions, I found myself having a wonderful time. There’s something uniquely special about reconnecting with people who knew you when you were just starting to figure out who you were. Even if we hadn’t been close, there was an undeniable bond. Beneath discussions of careers and family, there lay a shared understanding: we remembered each other in our early days, filled with dreams and aspirations.
Returning to campus after so many years felt surreal, as though time had stretched and shortened simultaneously. I turned a corner and spotted a friend emerging from a dormitory, and for a brief moment, it felt like we still lived there. We reminisced about life’s ups and downs in the same spaces where we once discussed youthful dilemmas. I remembered the night my friend discovered her boyfriend’s infidelity, coinciding with my own experiment of dyeing my hair red with Kool-Aid. The passion and intensity we felt during those years flooded back, reminding us of our youthful certainty that we would lead lives filled with purpose and success.
Standing under the tent during our reunion, I found myself sharing how I spent the week before the event sewing labels onto my daughter’s clothes for sleepaway camp. “I can’t picture you doing that,” one friend remarked, and others nodded in agreement. It struck me—had I really changed so much? What else did they recall about me that I had forgotten?
Throughout the weekend, we stood in groups, piecing together memories like fragments of a shared narrative. Was it that night you lost your shoes? Or was it in junior year? Everything started to blend together, memories becoming a kaleidoscope of experiences.
Our exploration of the campus took on a different tone, with text messages flying back and forth. If we had had smartphones back then, my messages would have been a barrage of “where r u?” instead of spontaneous encounters. Yet, our desire to reconnect remained unchanged.
During lunch on Saturday, one woman shared the heartbreaking story of her father’s passing. As we listened, honoring her grief, someone recalled meeting him, bringing back a memory she had forgotten. It was a poignant reminder that our shared experiences lingered, connecting us to those we had lost.
I chatted with a friend who married his college girlfriend after an unexpected pregnancy. Twenty years later, they were still together, and I couldn’t help but wonder about their journey. He spoke proudly of their youngest daughter, a competitive log roller, emphasizing the balance and agility required for success.
As we reminisced and shared laughter, I noticed the changes in my friends’ faces—deeper laugh lines and familiar expressions now tinged with the wisdom of age. The reality of aging became palpable, particularly as we navigated more serious discussions about addiction and regret. I realized that life doesn’t have clear winners or losers; everyone carries their own burdens, and success isn’t a straightforward path.
That night, I returned to my hotel room and scribbled my thoughts in a notebook. There’s nothing inherently special about turning 20, just as there isn’t about 10, 15, or even 42. Significant transitions sneak up on us quietly, much like a cat nudging you awake in the morning. First, they softly brush against you, urging you to rise and embrace the day ahead.
Sunday morning arrived with a light drizzle, and a sense of melancholy washed over me. The blue skies of Saturday had given way to a gray, humid mist. During breakfast, I decided it was time to leave. I didn’t want to face the sadness of saying goodbye to friends who had become so integral to my past. I wished to preserve that moment, to keep them as they were—etched in my memory like fossils in stone. They represented a version of myself that I hardly recognized anymore, and I longed for the comfort of knowing they would always be there, ready for me to revisit whenever I needed a taste of my youthful self.
In summary, reflecting on two decades since college reveals the bittersweet nature of time and the connections that bind us. Our experiences shape who we are, while reunions serve as a poignant reminder of our shared history, even as we navigate the complexities of adulthood.