WhatsApp pinged me awake this morning, alerting me to a new post in the group chat.
(You know – the group chat).
“Fifteen years?!” flashed up on the screen, alongside a picture that Facebook had oh-so thoughtfully pushed out as a memory to one of my friends in the thread – and she had screenshotted to share with us.
“Like, how?!?!”
There we were, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and (probably) drunk; 23-ish and sprawled across some pushed-together couches in someone’s backyard, having the time of our lives.
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No cares.
(Except maybe an errant uni assignment.)
No responsibilities.
(Aside from a part-time job at the local pub.)
No kids.
(Except, arguably, us.)
As I looked at that picture and felt into those fresh-faced twenty-somethings grinning back at me from the screen, a knot started to form in the pit of my stomach.
My eyes got a little tingly.
My throat tightened just a touch.
And as I hurtled down Nostalgia Road, I was suddenly, painfully aware of how much I miss those days.
It’s strange to long for a time gone by in a way not dissimilar to the way you might pine for a lost loved one. There is genuine grief around it, paired with fondness in the reflection for the years that hold such a special place in my heart.
“Fifteen years… I mourn these days gone,” one of the girls in the thread wrote below the picture.
“So lucky we lived it when we did and made the most of those years. Waiting for the parties each weekend, sloppy couch sessions up in each other’s personal space, pool parties, random pashes…
“I never realised how quickly life would change. Fifteen years has been and gone too fast.”
And she’s right. It’s gone by in the blink of an eye, in a way I never could have imagined it would.
I very clearly remember being 23 and telling a good friend who’s eight years older than me that I would never, ever give up clubbing and partying every weekend. I would never get over it, never be sick of it, never not have the energy to go out and dance and get totally f**ked up and then be hanging out for the next weekend so we could do it all again…
I can still feel the disbelief that roiled through me when my older (arguably wiser...) friend told me, “Trust me – you won’t want to in a few years’ time.”
"Yes I will," I thought. "You don't know."
Boy was I wrong.
And yet, while the thought of stumbling home at dawn churns my stomach these days, I still feel the grip of something akin to grief as I remember those past days so fondly.
I consider myself so lucky that many of the people I was friends with back then are still in my life; that I have a rock-solid group of women who have each other’s back, who call each other (kindly) on any bulls**t we come up with, who can look back together and laugh – and who can also look forward with excitement and anticipation, knowing we’ll likely have each other for another 15 years, and (with any kind of luck) another 15 after that.
But you know who I don't see as much of? 'The boys.'
“I also miss guy pals,” wrote one of my friends in the thread.
“I feel like when people pair up, those platonic friendships drift slightly.”
And I feel the same. While I still have those girls in my life, I deeply miss and have grieved for the male friendships I once had that have faded into obscurity since we all drifted into our adult lives. The reasons aren’t sexual or romantic; it was nothing beyond platonic (with the exception of the occasional party pash and some harmless flirting on a Saturday night, but that doesn’t count – that was hormones and booze and stuff).
But there was this deep, unabashed love we had for each other that felt like nothing ever had before or has since; a strong sense of the family we had all chosen for ourselves and for each other.
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Many people say they don’t miss their 20s at all and look, honestly? I get it. There are definitely parts I’d rather forget. (And some parts I definitely can't remember. It was a wild few years.) I did some stupid s**t (didn’t we all?), I behaved badly at times (again, don’t think I’m the only one), made some bad calls, dated some red flags, broke some hearts, had my own ripped apart and stitched back together…
So, I’m not looking back with rose-coloured glasses on.
But something about the bonds my friends and I shared during that time felt so unbreakable.
Forever stretched out impossibly before us and we had everything on our side.
There’s this French proverb (that I happened to learn when I was in approximately my 20s, too, that makes more and more sense with every decade that passes):
Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait.
If only the young could know; if only the old could do.
I’m not old, of course, and what we even mean by ‘old’ these days has been totally turned on its head – you’re only as old as you feel, etcetera. But I do sometimes get caught in the grip of a deep longing for a time I can never revisit.
When everything was an adventure; when nothing held us back; when love felt stronger, richer and more binding.
We swore we’d never grow up, never give up on each other. And some of us (like my girls in the group chat) haven’t. For that, I am truly thankful.
The now isn't bad, of course. There’s definitely a certain satisfaction in growing up – and while 24-year-old me would be horrified to know that my ideal Friday night these days is a pizza on the couch and in bed by 10pm, 38-year-old me knows it actually feels so dang good.
But something magical happened in those good old days – and as much as there is comfort and calm and contentment in the good now days, that special sparkle will always belong to a time we can't get back.
Feature image: Supplied.
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