To have goodbyes that hurt.

One day, you’re 18.

You’re in a new place,

you feel lost

because you’re a number inside of thousands,

a face almost no one knows.

Then, you meet a girl who’s dancing in a park,

end up in a class with a girl from your hometown who you barely know,

laugh too loud with a dorm-mate in the hall,

see the same people

at the same coffeeshop day after day.

Days turn into months,

months turn into years

and at some point along the way,

you realize you haven’t looked back.

Those people have become your people,

that place became your home,

and then,

you blinked.

And it’s over.

Those people are your people,

that place is your home,

and those goodbyes hurt like 18-year-old you never thought they would.

One day, you’re 24.

You’re sick of the words “adulthood” and “post-grad”

because they just feel like things you can’t figure out.

You send a text about how lost you feel again

to one of the girls who always found you in that coffeeshop.

Two seconds later, your phone rings.

You’re sobbing, and she’s listening.

Like she always did in that coffeeshop.

Just from miles away now.

Minutes turn into an hour,

and she has you laughing by the end of the call.

You both wish you were back in that time,

in that same city, on that campus,

in that coffeeshop,

as clueless and as free as you didn’t even realize you were.

Your world is spinning and crumbling all at once,

but these are the people who slow it down

and catch the mess.

One day, you’re 25.

You’re hearing from afar about the ways your best friend is falling in love,

and you both smile.

You talk about what came before,

how he’s different,

and you silently wonder if this is it.

Then, you’re 26.

You’re beaming watching her at their wedding,

in the state you once thought would always be home,

knowing you have to get on a plane the next day.

Things changed faster than you thought they would;

all your people you found in that one place

are in different places now,

and that feels like the best yet hardest thing in the world.

Your plane lands.

In your newest place.

It’s getting late.

You walk into your empty apartment,

sit on your kitchen floor,

and call that one friend you know will answer.

You’re not crying this time.

You’re laughing.

Because you’re genuinely happy.

You’ve stopped fighting change like it’s a bad thing.

You’re in a new state,

sitting on a new floor that is more “yours” than any others ever have been,

still calling the same ones who you know will answer.

Still making the same jokes about buying rocking chairs together

if you both end up old and still on your own.

You’re 26.

Nothing has worked out like you thought it would.

But with a shrug,

you actually think that’s a good thing.

You fully believe more than ever that things will work out how they need to.

You’re 26,

and one of the ones you met when you were 18

is sleeping on the couch in your apartment for a weekend.

You show her the life you’re building,

and she tells you she hopes you know that you have something special here.

For that weekend,

this city you’re building in

feels like home in a way it never has.

Because of the hardest of laughs that enter when she compares your fridge to a single college boy’s fridge,

because of the way you spend hours trying to figure out where time went,

and wonder what’s coming next,

confessing what you’re scared of.

One day, you’re 18.

The next, you’re 26.

And you realize how lucky you are to have goodbyes that hurt because of what younger you built.

You’re lucky for the ways those ones come back,

call when you need it,

and challenge you when you don’t even know you need it.

That place where you all met was your home.

But now,

they are.

Hold tight to them.

But let them go the places they need to go.

Call them often,

text them the random parts of your day they no longer see.

Because when your world is spinning and crumbling all at once,

these are still the people who slow it down and catch the mess.

And when your world is coming together somewhere new,

these are the people who will cheer you on.

These are the people

who go from your neighbors

to “long distance friends”

quicker than you realize.

But these are the people.

Who call late at night,

sleep on your couch and create the best weekends,

answer your texts all day long,

and keep your head on straight when you’re losing control.

When I was 18,

I found a home I never expected to find.

And at 26,

I know now it’s in those people. 

Today,

I’m thankful for the goodbyes that hurt.