“Freshly 21!”

I’m giddy at the wine store checkout. Grinning, I walk out not only as the new owner of two bottles of wine (buy one, get one half off), but also as a member of Campus Fine Wines’ rewards program. My best friend from high school is waiting for me outside, visiting just for the weekend. With her 21st only a few days away, we’re celebrating over board games, libations, and winding trips down memory lane. 

I met Isabel in the first few weeks of high school. She loves pastels, and I love browns and greys; she’s bubbly, and I’m deadpan; she’s a minimalist, and my life is overfilled with trinkets and tchotchkes. I missed her sweet smile and long-winded but wonderful stories. Between bundled walks down Wickenden and anticlimactic tours of the libraries and Jo’s, we reminisce on high school—the friends who’ve come and gone, the teachers we still giggle about, and the way everything felt so big back then. Isabel dreams—she’s always looking ahead, delighted about what’s to come. I tend to linger in the past, turning over memories like well-worn stones, too afraid of letting go, of time moving too fast, of things changing before I’m ready.

But when I’m with Isabel, those fears feel a little smaller. She reminds me that looking ahead doesn’t mean forgetting, just as I remind her that remembering doesn’t mean staying still. As we walk without a destination and talk about nothing in particular, I realize how much I’ve missed the way we both pull each other back into the present. 

Nevertheless, the shadow of high school, fuzzy memories of a time almost three years ago, still persists in the corners of my mind—from how I write essay outlines to how I still manage to be at least five minutes late to all my classes. The weight of my memories undulates; sometimes, the worries of my past mistakes and naivete creep in, making me hesitate when I want to try something new. But with Isabel next to me, the past doesn’t feel like something to fear—it just feels like another part of the story. I feel so old, so mature as I walk out of the wine shop, but upon seeing Isabel’s smiling face, I jump right back into giggling at the stupidest things with her on our way home, trying not to slip on ice as we clutch onto each other’s puffers. 

Although I just turned 21, which is supposed to be one of those ages where you feel old, there have been many moments where I still feel exasperatingly little. I had no idea what kind of wine to buy in that store, my first W-2 is sitting on my desk collecting dust, and I’m still slightly embarrassed when I admit to other upperclassmen that I’m still in the dorms and on a meal plan. I guess I thought that at 21, everything falls into place. I assumed I’d be comforted by the automatic maturity that accompanies the on-paper status of being an “adult,” but instead, I’m much too caught up in the messiness of figuring it all out—of decisions that feel too big, mistakes that feel too inevitable, and questions that feel too endless.

There’s a quote in one of my favorite books, Everything I Know About Love, that encapsulates this feeling of growing up and mildly freaking out: “You are realizing the mundanity of life. You are moving out of the realm of fantasy of ‘when I grow up’ and adjusting to the reality that you’re there; it’s happening, and it’s not what you thought it’d be.” The things I’ve looked forward to throughout the last few years of high school and the first few of college are now daunting: getting a job, figuring out where to live, knowing who I want to be. While I know so many other college students my age feel the same, I often feel alone, like everyone else has got it figured out but me. 

But it’s happening—I’m growing up, in the same way I’ve always been growing and will continue to grow. I’ll continue to try my hardest to stick with the people who ground me, and Isabel is one of them. 

Today, we mulled over how we met almost seven years ago. Over those seven years, maturity and change have snuck up on us in quiet, almost ridiculous ways. Like the funny feelings of fear and excitement that ensued after we learned to drive, got into college, or applied for our first internships. I had Isabel by my side through all these milestones, and she had me. We’ve juggled everything together, balancing the demands of the student council, prom planning, and pep rallies with college applications, all while surviving on far too little sleep and far too much coffee. 

However, in these conversations, we often forget the more mundane moments of our past. The times I remember only by the smallest of moments, like how a brief flicker of light hits my wall in a certain way, reminding me of the times I would wake up early to catch the sunrise with my dad. Or how the specific smell of chocolate chip cookies in the oven brings back the bake sales we’d host over our lunch breaks to raise money for prom. Nostalgia works in weird ways, and I’ve found that when I look back at my “big” moments, they don’t seem so big compared to the “little” ones I often took for granted.

In the comfort of my cozy, messy dorm, I take in the surreal feeling that one of the people who defined my teenage years has now met my new friends, seen my new trinkets, and peeked into my new life. It feels unfamiliar but serendipitous, a strange yet wonderful intersection of the past and the present. These tiny, seemingly trivial moments—touring the dining hall, laughing about our bad high school outfits and haircuts, watching Isabel curl her hair while she sits on my dusty dorm floor—remind me that the most essential parts of life aren’t milestones, but the people who help you move through them. The unease of my past and my memories—filled with feelings of being too young and naive, not good enough, and confusingly lost—begin to feel less sticky. I’m starting to feel like I’ll be okay if I sit back and let go a little. I’m unsure if it’s the comfort of Isabel or the new ID in my pocket or even the tax form on my desk. Maybe it’s a combination of all three. 

College life, I guess, isn’t all that different from high school, or even the years that came before—it’s still a constant juggling act of meeting expectations, keeping up with responsibilities, and trying to stay sane during the whole process. I’m starting to realize that balance depends on the people who support you. It meant so much to have Isabel meet the friends who now lift me up the way she always has, bridging the past and present in a way that feels weird and nostalgic, yet completely natural.

I have new friends and new interests and new fears. Still, ends always ring the bell for new beginnings, and as the wine bottles clink on our slushy walk back to my dorm, I feel more and more excited and less and less scared—not only for the weekend ahead of me, but for everything that awaits me in the future. Good and bad, freeing and scary—everything, all at once.