Why I’ll Never Go to a High School Reunion—and What I’ve Learned Instead
My senior year in high school, I took an elbow to my lip from a girl named Liz Lawlor. Why do I remember her name 37 years later? Memory is funny that way. The fact that this memory is wrapped up in the emotions of anger and the pain of splitting my lip is why it’s still vivid to me. It was a heated game with plenty of pushing, shoving, and fouls. After being elbowed in the lip and knocked to the floor, I found myself sitting on the hardwood, my vision narrowing—perhaps the blow had stunned me. I slammed my fists down on the court.
When I put my hands out in front of me, all I could see was bright red blood.
The next thing I remember was sitting in the emergency room at Stamford Hospital, waiting to get five stitches in my upper lip. Needless to say, I missed the end of the final game of my basketball career.
This memory resurfaces now and then because it was such an emotionally charged moment, and emotions play a significant role in what we remember.
The basketball court holds so many memories for me—after-school practices, early Saturday mornings, and the constant mix of praise and yelling from a frustrated Coach Baxter. Basketball and athletics were my identity; they were my special skill. From throwing the softball the furthest on field day in sixth grade to being picked first by the boys during flag football in high school gym class, sports were the one place I stood out.
Many people relate to never wanting to revisit middle or high school. Those years felt like the worst of my life. I had just returned to the U.S. after living overseas from third to fifth grade, where I’d been popular, smart, and comfortable. Coming back to America in sixth grade, I never quite fit in.
The other morning, breaking my usual journaling and meditation routine, I jumped on social media to check on something and ended up in the proverbial Facebook rabbit hole. As I often say (and many preach), social media is not the best way to start your day. I came across a post that led to another and another, eventually landing on a picture posted by a neighbor from my hometown about her dad, who had passed away a few years ago. Browsing through her other posts, I found photos of high school classmates, old friends, and group shots I wasn’t part of. Faces I hadn’t seen in person in 37 years brought back a flood of emotions.
Those photos triggered memories of not fitting in, of being excluded from activities, and of moving far away from my hometown, rarely returning. The people in the pictures looked like they were having so much fun. About 57 people I knew—or knew of—from my graduating class of 450 still get together for reunions and occasionally post pictures of their meetups as longtime friends. I’ve never been to a reunion and have no desire to go. Just thinking about going back to that town and seeing those people gives me the willies.
Why is that? My sister still visits Connecticut and keeps in touch with her high school friends. I have virtually no contact with mine. Like so many others, I have no desire to revisit high school by attending a reunion. But surely I can’t blame those 57 people for my feelings of not fitting in. They didn’t have it out for me; most of them barely knew me. This is about me and my personal journey.
My life has been filled with moment after moment of feeling unseen and not good enough—of not being one of the “cool kids” or “pretty enough” to be noticed by the hot boys at the ice-skating rink on Friday nights. Like so many teenage girls, I wanted desperately to have a boyfriend.
Throughout high school, I was in two long-term relationships that helped me survive but perhaps also kept me from connecting more with others. When I left for college, I made friends with three girls in my dorm. When I left after two semesters, I never spoke to them again.
This sense of not fitting in wasn’t limited to school. It extended to my mother’s family as well. She is one of six siblings, and I’m not sure what I said or did as a child that made them dislike me, but I always felt like an outsider. I know I was bossy and impatient, but as everyone knows, that’s almost a given for a first child.
As I’ve grown older, lived in different cities, and experienced two marriages, one child, and various jobs, this pattern has persisted. Although I’ve had friends, I’ve often felt like I was the one doing all the work to maintain relationships—planning the parties, organizing the get-togethers. I tried hard to create a tribe, but it never stuck. Friends came and went.
Time after time, I’ve seen photos on Facebook of large groups of women celebrating birthdays or other events at local restaurants. The kick in the stomach that comes from seeing a group of 15 women at a Mexican restaurant I wasn’t invited to still hurts. It brings tears to my eyes as I write this. But when I ask myself whether I really wanted to be part of those groups, the answer is always no.
Over time, I’ve come to understand this dynamic through Human Design[1] and the concept of cosmic agreements. I believe I chose this life to experience the core wound of division and separation from others. This wound has allowed me to grow and learn, but it also resurfaces repeatedly. The “actors” in my life have done a stellar job of fulfilling their roles in this cosmic play.
This experience of division has taught me to accept and love myself. It’s been a bumpy, tear-filled journey, but I now embrace the fact that I operate differently from others. That doesn’t make me right or them wrong. When I see others making decisions or holding beliefs I know don’t serve them, I give them grace. Their journey is their own. If they choose to learn and grow, that’s up to them. And if they want support from someone who’s lived it, I’m here to inspire and guide them.
My nickname on the basketball court was “The Enforcer.” Perhaps I was given the gift of athleticism so I could have a place where I fit in, a team where I belonged. It’s the one place where I felt seen and excelled. The court gave me not just a sense of belonging but a drive that has stayed with me my whole life.