High school was not the best time of my life. The best times are all around and yet to come. At times, high school felt like a prison and at others it was a common ground of halls to stroll. Upon graduating, I was more than happy to leave and never look back. My identity of that time feels foreign, but there are memories from high school that sting with nostalgia when replayed, holding an irreplaceable excitement of youth, drama, pain and hope, a rare combination to find once left to history.
My school’s lunch menu was nothing special, but it’s something I miss. The school cafeteria offered unremarkable stale curly fries and Bosco sticks, but the food is not what I miss. I miss sitting at the same table every day with the same group of friends, surrounded by our compatriots, complaining about our classes and sharing stories.
The cafeteria chaos, the laughs, the giddy nervousness of an invisible spotlight among the crowd and the anticipation of the bell to signal a rushing crowd to gather and eat together. It felt like a family of strangers. It was a collection of familiar faces smiling back with names I’ll never remember.
Something I grew to appreciate in high school was the morning. I miss the banter between my two siblings and I, fighting over one sink, waking up my sleep-talking sister and the tired car ride down November’s frosted backroads, a secret shortcut.
I knew my schedule to a tee, who I’d see, what I’d learn and how I’d feel. When the bell rang, liberating us from the confines of metal chairs, it was only 3 p.m. and we still had the entire afternoon to spare. I felt productive and satisfied enough to take time to rest, lying on the floor with my dog in the sun.
My high school’s cross-country team was the source of some of my favorite memories. Running through fields during the hottest hours of the day felt like torture at the time, but I miss the consistency of mandatory exercise.
It also felt good to be part of a team, encouraging each other and sharing our victories. Every Thursday we had family dinners that took over someone’s backyard, and I miss racing the most. Screaming at the top of my lungs to cheer for friends and the feeling of euphoria that follows crossing the finish line is a one-of-a-kind experience.
No matter what high school you went to, there was always drama. It was everywhere, climbing up the walls, whispering around corners and lingering between bathroom stalls. Being the center of it was never ideal, but I always loved hearing the gossip and stories that escalated slowly because each day had a new secret to uncover.
Unlike college, we grew up together and everyone knew everyone. At the time, drama seemed life-altering and heavy with importance, but looking back, it was both insignificant and hysterical. The memories are tinged with a laugh track, dauntingly similar to the cliche plot of a high school Netflix original, but piled into a collection, the tales still result in shock and awe from new friends.
Do you remember the friends you had in class who you always looked forward to seeing so you expand on math class inside jokes? Those people who you grew closer to 45 minutes each day for 180 days of the year? When the class ended, you might have remained close or never spoke again.
You bonded over the light-hearted trauma of hard graders and obnoxious class clowns or escaped the day’s monotony for a few moments to connect on a deeper level between lessons. Some of the toughest teachers made a greater impact than they realized because you could bond with your fellow classmates over your frustration with your least favorite educators. The solitude of a familiar, kind face could take the weight off of an anxiety-inducing, eight-period day.
The past has an infinite, ever-expanding collection of things to miss. No period of life should be the best time of your life because there is always more to look forward to — more best friends, heartbreaks, wild nights and peaceful mornings. Although you shouldn’t hold onto things no longer serving you, it’s still important to flip back through your scrapbook of memories, what you learned from them, how they are still part of you and how you are still them.
Libby Evans is a sophomore studying journalism at Ohio University. Please note that the views and opinions of the columnists do not reflect those of The Post. Want to talk more about it? Let Libby know by emailing her at le422021@ohio.edu.
