Every year around this time—let’s call it “late fall”—I feel a sudden awareness of how much has happened in my life in such a short period. Maybe it’s my birthday, which falls out on Thanksgiving every five years or so, but I find myself feeling introspective and somewhat nostalgic for the commotion of my young adulthood.
This year is no different.
Several weeks ago, I sat across from one of my best friends at an upscale kosher restaurant. We had first met on the second day of orientation at Lander College for Women, when she looked over my shoulder at my registration form, excited that we were both majoring in political science. Panicked that I had no friends on campus as of that moment, I asked her: “Can we be friends?” She then copied my entire course list, ensuring we would sit next to each other in as many classes as we could that semester. Seven years later, we have been through so much change; college courses and graduation, new friends, romantic relationships, and many, many triumphs and failures.
Okay, back to the restaurant. My friend made a comment to the chef that I would “never lie” about liking something, and I quipped “there’s definitely a journalist joke in there somewhere.” She laughed and said, “Well, there’s also a lawyer joke in there,” and I suddenly realized that we were both working in positions we always talked about back in college. She was laser focused on attending a top-tier law school (she did) and I wanted to be a reporter (here I am). Here’s the friend I knew would become a brilliant lawyer, and now she is one. On top of all of that, we were out paying for an expensive culinary experience, something I really only dreamed of doing until very recently.
I get a similar reality check that things have changed so much for me in the past few years during every Thanksgiving holiday. Four years ago, before I met my husband, I was dating another man quite seriously. That year, my birthday fell on Thanksgiving day, and he arranged to do a “friendsgiving” dinner at his apartment to celebrate. And that same week, we had shopped for an engagement ring with the plans to get married the following spring. Let’s just say the week that was supposed to be a dream (read: an amazing birthday and a proposal) turned into a nightmare (read: an abrupt break up).
The following Thanksgiving, I was already in Columbus meeting my future in-laws for the first time. In the span of a year, I had sworn off men, met a man and began dating him seriously enough that he wanted me to meet his parents. The trip went quite well—so well, in fact, that on the last day, Caleb pulled me into his parents’ room and asked me to “look at something.” In his palm he had an antique platinum ring, its center stone catching the glint of the sunlight. He asked me, “Well, do you like it?” and, of course, I said yes.
Though we did not get formally engaged until a few weeks later, the contrast between the previous Thanksgiving and this one was drastic. The previous Thanksgiving I was heartbroken; and this one, I was in love again.
The Thanksgiving after that one was an unremarkable pandemic holiday at home, although Caleb and I were married already and hosted a couple of other friends who were stuck away from family too. And last Thanksgiving, I was 12 weeks pregnant. I once again felt astounded about where I found myself: with my husband, expecting our first child, spending time in his hometown. I was surrounded by people I didn’t know existed just a few years ago, calling them my “family” and handing out hugs and ultrasound pictures.
I’m sure you guessed how I feel about this year’s holiday as I take my five-month-old daughter to be with her grandparents in Columbus. A little part of me wishes I could go back throughout the years and tell myself how things would turn out, but then again, that would take away from the sense of awe that I feel about how far I’ve come in that time. Though I don’t know what’s to come for me before my next birthday—which next year will be the day before Thanksgiving—I do know that whatever is coming, I’ll be amazed. Just like I am every year.
Digital editor Channa Fischer is the token 20-something in the office. She lives in Washington Heights.
