20 years. In January, it’ll be 21. That feels like a long time, probably because I have nothing longer to compare it to. But this weekend, I came pretty close.

A large VFW Hall 5253, off a random road in Albertson, New York, filled with a little under 200 relatives and a great-aunt turning 100. Fourth cousins, awkward recent in-laws, and stromboli. Name tags that specified, “Susan’s husband” and “John V.’s son.” Stepping inside this enormous and poorly-decorated event venue to a long-overdue family reunion, I soon met second cousins from Alabama and third cousins from 15 minutes outside my college town. I learned that I have a lot, a lot, a lot of relatives named Joey. I hugged my 100-year-old great-aunt Angie, who recounted the last time we saw each other with an enthusiasm and attention to detail that even I couldn’t match.

Her memory was sharp, startlingly so, as she described that church we were in years ago and how she had handed me down her ring embossed with an “A.” She was so thrilled to see me then, and just as thrilled to see me now. So many cherished faces showed up for her that day—while I expected her to recognize me, I didn’t expect it to be with such warmth and clarity. As a photographer, Angie had always been one to capture memories, so perhaps that’s why her own were so vivid. 

Despite how much life she had seen, she still remembered, still held fast onto certain memories—Angie had the remarkable gift of making everyone feel seen and treasured. 

A few hours in, after all greetings were exchanged, Angie’s youngest sister grabbed the small microphone at the front of the hall. She randomly chose someone from each branch of Angie’s sprawling extended family—one for every sibling—to come up and share a story about her. As one of 12, the speeches took up a long but worthwhile part of the evening. Stories were tossed out like a bride’s bouquet into the audience; those who caught them clapped, cheered, and wolf-whistled. She soaked up the love and adoration with a kind of energy that refused to wane—she wouldn’t even sit down in the chair designated for her. Tales of Angie stealing her sister’s underwear and smoking pot with her nephews crackled through the mic, resurfacing for everyone to revel in. 

For the first time, I noticed the heavy New York accent that so many of my relatives still had. Their slang and lingo, the way none of us could hear half of what they were saying because they talked with their hands, waving the microphone away from their faces. I felt so distant. I knew none of my second cousins or relatives the way the previous generation did—growing up together, living in the same neighborhoods, relying on family for everything.  

And now, not too far away from that same neighborhood, but decades later, she still was a marvel. 100 years—she had lived almost three lifetimes and retained the energy of a teenager.  

Angie’s milestone gave me a new lens through which to see family. A century isn’t just a number; it’s a map of resilience, change, and continuity. How does someone witness a hundred years of life and still beam with that much light? We joked about uncovering her secret: Was it oatmeal every morning and a chunk of dark chocolate every night? That she didn’t bother with driving and walked everywhere instead? That she hadn’t tied herself down with a husband until later in life? That she had a job she loved?

Looking around at all those name tags, at my cousins from Alabama and Joeys of every generation, I wondered a little more about this “secret.” Perhaps the answer was the ginormous family who loved her dearly.  

The barren veteran memorial hall didn’t need decorations—the sparkle of life in that room was enough. It was there in the shared stories, the laughter, the little moments of reconnection. Family has a way of transcending physical spaces, offering belonging even when everything else feels distant or fractured. It’s hard for me to stay connected to my immediate cousins, aunts, and uncles—sometimes it’s even hard to keep in touch with my own brothers. But sitting in that hall, watching my dad beaming brighter than I’ve seen in a while around his cousins and brothers, my great-aunt clutching her heart as her nephews joked about times from decades ago, I realized how deep those bonds run, how they endure despite the years and the distance.

We belong to something much larger than ourselves. In that hall, amidst the stories and memories, I understood that family is a thread that, once woven, never truly unravels.

Angie lived through decades of memories and eras of change, and somehow preserved her place in it all. A single moment, captured in a photograph or a story, can give a glimpse into a whole life. And for someone who spent her years behind the camera, maybe she understood that better than anyone.  

What does it mean to witness a century of life? It means knowing you’ve left a mark, and as we saw on Saturday, Angie’s mark will be forever etched in all of us. 

I realized Angie’s secret wasn’t some mystery to solve. It was all around us, plain as day, if only you stopped to look: Her family. Her history. Her joy. Her resilience.  

A century well-lived. A century well-loved.