On my 20th birthday, I received a card from my younger sister, Emma. “Wow,” she scrawled in her uneven handwriting, “I can’t believe you’re 20!” I felt the same disbelief. Turning 20 marked a significant shift—the conclusion of my teenage years and the onset of adulthood. I was at a peculiar age: old enough to evoke surprise but still youthful enough to appreciate it.
However, turning 20 didn’t initiate any real change. Inside, I still felt like I was 19, or sometimes even 14. Regardless of the date, I wasn’t any closer to adulthood. It was during this time that I first understood I would never again be a child or a teenager, and that time moves forward relentlessly.
I anticipated my 20-year college reunion to be uneventful. My cynical side viewed it as merely a tactic for the college to boost alumni contributions and foster a sense of loyalty. Our graduation, held in a football stadium—an area I rarely frequented during my time there—was a logistical nightmare. We had to arrive early for security checks due to President Clinton’s presence, and the torrential rain prevented us from bringing umbrellas. The experience felt more like a real-world obligation than a celebration of our college journey, making the idea of commemorating it seem trivial.
Yet, the prevailing notion suggests that only those who lack maturity enjoy reunions, either to flaunt their success or revisit the past. So, is it socially unacceptable to admit I truly enjoyed mine?
There’s an unparalleled connection with those who knew you in your formative years. Even if we weren’t close friends or had differences, there was an undeniable bond. Beneath discussions of careers and family, there was a shared understanding: we remembered our younger selves, those initial dreams of how life could unfold.
Returning to campus after so many years was surreal; it felt like both a moment ago and a lifetime away. I turned a corner and spotted a familiar face coming out of a dormitory, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as if we were still students. We sat at the same tables where we once debated trivial matters, now shifting our talks to early menopause instead of fleeting romances. I recalled the time a friend discovered her boyfriend’s infidelity, coinciding with my own impulsive decision to dye my hair with Kool-Aid. The intensity of our youthful lives came rushing back, our earnest aspirations to live differently from those before us. Two decades later, we craved to escape our adult responsibilities and return to that carefree time. Yes, we had made compromises, but we accepted them.
As I stood under the tent during the reunion, trying to keep warm, I shared with friends how I had spent the week preparing my daughter’s sleepaway camp items, sewing name labels onto her underwear. “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 about my past self had I forgotten?
The reunion unfolded as various groups recounted shared experiences, piecing together our collective history. “Was that the night you lost your shoes?” or “Do you remember when I kissed that guy?” Memories merged and timelines blurred, each of us viewing our past from different perspectives.
We navigated the campus differently now; our smartphones buzzed with notifications, a stark contrast to the spontaneous encounters of our youth. Yet, our need for connection remained unchanged.
During Saturday’s lunch, a poignant conversation emerged as one woman recounted her father’s passing, a familiar story marked by illness and loss. We listened intently, honoring her grief. “I remember meeting your dad,” someone chimed in, triggering forgotten memories and providing her with a moment of solace amidst her sorrow.
I caught up with a classmate who had married his college girlfriend after an unexpected pregnancy. They’ve been together for 20 years now, and I couldn’t help but wonder about their journey through the challenges of life. He spoke with pride about their youngest daughter, a competitive log roller, sharing that success requires “balance, core strength, and nimble feet.”
The physical changes in my friends were evident; laughter etched deeper lines on their faces. Witnessing their transformation into parents reminded me that aging is inevitable. Despite the ability to shield myself from the aging process in my daily life, seeing those I once knew as young adults confronted me with the reality that none of us escape it. As our conversations shifted to heavier topics—addiction, regret, and despair—I recognized that life is not a competition; everyone has their struggles. Some have more, some less, and there’s no clear reasoning behind it.
At night, I returned to my hotel room and began to jot down my thoughts. There’s nothing inherently special about turning 20; it’s no more significant than 10, 15, or even 42. Transitions in life often occur quietly, without grand announcements. They creep up on us, much like a cat nudging you awake—first a gentle pawing, then a soft whisker brushing against your face, coaxing you out of slumber.
On Sunday morning, a light drizzle enveloped the campus, and I felt a wave of melancholy wash over me. The vibrant blue skies of Saturday had faded to gray, mirroring my reluctance to leave. As I sat down for breakfast, I resolved to depart. I didn’t want to face the somber goodbyes beneath the damp tent or witness my friends return to their complex lives. I wished to preserve this moment, keeping my peers as memories etched in stone. I wanted them to remain here, so I could always revisit this well of nostalgia when I needed a taste of my past.
In summary, the reflections on a 20-year college reunion evoke deeper emotions about the passage of time, the connection to our younger selves, and the shared experiences that shape us. Though life continues to evolve, the bonds formed during those formative years remain significant, reminding us of who we once were and the journeys we’ve undertaken.
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