There’s something almost mystical about reunions. Not the regular catch-ups over dinner, but those epic, trip-based gatherings where classmates convene after decades, as if time were just a decorative illusion. In the past few years, with the slow but steady drumbeat of friends turning fifty, I’ve been both witness and participant in adventures that begin with nervous anticipation and end in riotous laughter—and a kind of rebirth that no ordinary weekend could bring. At first glance, reunions seem to promise little more than nostalgia, some bad dancing, and a few retellings of embarrassing teenage moments. But somewhere between boarding passes and late-night confessions, something extraordinary unfolds. Time collapses. The cracks and scars of the intervening years fade into the background, replaced by a wave of pure, unfiltered joy—like meeting long-lost parts of ourselves we never realized had gone missing. For those fleeting days, we become the version of ourselves that existed befo...
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