Ghosts

I don't usually write personal stories, but it's my site, and I can break the rules once in a while. This weekend, I attended my 30th high school reunion, and I've been reflecting on what those years mean to me now.

When I was born, my family lived in Billerica, Massachusetts. My father was in the military and civil service, so we moved often. St. Louis area, Oklahoma City, Sacramento. By the time we landed in California in 1981, I was used to being the new kid, but Sacramento was different. It was a melting pot—diverse, transient, and dangerous. People came and went, and I can count on one hand the friends who stayed in the area from 2nd grade through 10th.

In 1991, my father's company closed its Sacramento office, and we relocated to Massachusetts. I didn't know it then, but it was the last time I'd ever see some of those friends. A few months before we left, there was a hostage crisis at a local electronics store. One of the deceased suspects had been a classmate of mine. I remember seeing his empty desk the next day at school, and I'll never forget thinking, "He asked me for a piece of paper just a few weeks ago." There wasn't an announcement, no pause to acknowledge what had happened. Despite the horror, it was as if life had to keep moving. It was a defining moment in my adolescence—the abruptness of it, the indifference, the lack of closure. Sacramento always felt like a place you passed through, not where you stayed.

Then came the move to Westford, Massachusetts, just after my 15th birthday in the fall of 1991. The contrast was stark—Westford was everything Sacramento wasn't. It was safe and quiet, the kind of New England town I'd only seen on TV. But for a teenager already wrestling with anxiety, it felt like landing on a different planet. I didn't speak the language of my new peers—literally and figuratively. In California, we said "hella." In Massachusetts, it was "wicked." I didn't know anyone or have a shared history with them, and without the social media or cell phones we take for granted now, the distance between us felt insurmountable.

I've always had an eidetic memory. It's a blessing and a curse. You don't get to choose what sticks with you; the bad memories linger as vividly as the good ones. That's the problem with nostalgia—it's a double-edged sword. For years, I didn't want to go back to Westford. Not because of the people but because of the memories. I didn't want to dredge up the past, to rattle around in those feelings of isolation and awkwardness that dominated my teenage years.

But one of my old classmates, through what can only be described as delicate negotiations ("Just come to the damn reunion!"), convinced me to go. So I did. I cued up a '90s playlist on Spotify and drove down memory lane, butterflies in my stomach.

And my perspective couldn't have been more wrong.

For four hours, I reconnected with people I hadn't seen in three decades. We laughed about the past, shared stories about our kids, and reminisced about those high school years. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I realized something I hadn't expected: I wasn't as alone as I thought I was back then. We all felt it—the anxiety, the pressure, the sense of being on the outside looking in. Despite not being raised as a part of that community, we still shared the time spent together, feeling those strange, awkward feelings. I had never considered that part before.

It's funny how time changes your perspective. As a teenager, I thought everyone else had it all figured out. But the truth is, we were all just trying to survive those years, each hanging by a thread; somehow, that struggle to connect and belong bonded us more than I ever realized.

That's when it hit me: these people, this place, these memories—they're all still with me, like ghosts—not haunting me but shaping me. The Grey Ghosts may have been just a high school mascot, but the metaphor extends far beyond that. These relationships linger in the good and the bad, the anxiety and the joy. They become part of who we are, even if we move across the country or haven't seen each other for 30 years. We often think we can leave the past behind, but the truth is it stays with us. And maybe that's a good thing. The ghosts of our past aren't there to torment us but to remind us of where we've been and how far we've come. As I stood at the reunion, talking to people who knew me when I was most awkward, anxious, and unsure, I realized something: I wouldn't trade those memories for anything. The years have a way of softening the edges of our pain and sharpening the moments of connection. And in the end, that's what lasts.

Like ghosts.