When Time Folds In On Itself: Lessons from a College Reunion
When I decided to attend my college reunion, I wasn’t sure what to expect. The invitation was open to alumni from every year, and while I arrived early for breakfast, I carried a little uncertainty about how people would be—or how I would feel walking back onto campus.
The first person I met was Vien, a warm and welcoming woman from the class of ’88. I graduated in ’99, yet the gap in years melted away instantly. She came hoping to reconnect with women from her class, and soon I was folded into their circle. Some of them, like me, lived in Florida—though in different corners of the state. They welcomed me as if I already belonged. Later in the day, after we’d gone our separate ways for different events, we bumped into each other again. To my surprise, they told me they had been looking for me. Their kindness and genuine interest made me feel seen and wanted in a way I hadn’t expected.
In contrast, my interactions with a few women from my own class were less pleasant. At one point, we gathered in front of an old classroom building for a photo. When I later asked one of them to send me the picture, she quickly deflected, insisting another woman—who already had my number—would handle it. Her tone made it clear she had no intention of exchanging numbers with me.
That evening, I ran into the same women at an after-party. They were tipsy and struggling to order an Uber in a sketchy part of town. Since I was headed their way, I offered them a ride. As we approached my car, they both automatically went for the back seat, as though I were their driver. I paused and asked one of them to sit up front—making it clear I wasn’t a taxi. During the ride, they spoke only to each other, offering me no acknowledgment beyond giving directions to their hotel.
Those two experiences—the warmth of Vien’s group and the coldness of my classmates—taught me something important.
First, my energy no longer resonates with certain people from my past. And that’s okay. The connections I make now reflect who I am today, not who I was decades ago. The women I felt aligned with were mirrors of the growth, openness, and light I now carry.
Second, I was reminded that compassion doesn’t mean ignoring boundaries. Those classmates weren’t rejecting me so much as wrestling with their own insecurities. When I stopped taking it personally, I could see their behavior for what it was: an expression of their unhappiness, not a reflection of my worth. I could protect my peace while still choosing compassion.
Walking the campus again, I felt something else too—like time was folding in on itself. I caught glimpses of my younger self everywhere: the angsty 19-year-old single mom, new to this city, carrying fear heavier than her books, unsure how she would make it through on her own. I imagined her sitting under the tree where I used to eat lunch alone every day. I leaned inward, across time, and whispered to her:
“Keep going. You are stronger than you know. And I am here to remind you.”
Reunions aren’t really about reliving the past. They’re about seeing who you’ve become in relation to it. This one reminded me that growth isn’t just measured in years, but in the energy you carry—and in the compassion you choose to extend, both to others and to the younger versions of yourself still waiting under the trees.