Growing up in the 80s was special. In many ways. It was special because we were forced to interact with other, decades before the age of the smartphone. There was no internet, no tablets, no 24/7 news cycle, no immediate gratification. I think of long summer days of being outside, exploring the nooks and crannies of my little farm town. Watching TV with a limited selection of channels. (And if you missed an episode, there as a good chance you would never see it again.) It was also a time—in my aged recollection—where it was far too easy to feel alone. And different. A misfit. With little recourse except to hope you found someone who understood how you felt—even if tiny a little bit. Or—even better—just left you alone.

Sounds dramatic, I know. But at the time I suppose it was. And it wasn’t. Sort of like any emotion: not inherently good or bad. Just there. The naïveté of the time was a double-edged sword. The social politics of school looked simple from the outside like the placid surface of a lake. We were the ducks seemingly gliding across the surface, though beneath our presumed-waterproof feathers were our webbed feet working overtime to get us from one place to another, hoping it was the “right” place to be.

I had dinner with three friends who I went to school with recently. Paige, Carol and Stephanie met me for dinner when I was back home visiting my mom. It had been two years since our original get together. Back then, I’d reached out on our high school class’s Facebook page, and these lovely ladies are the ones who showed up. I’ve known Carol since kindergarten. Her family lived down the block from mine. (She was the original loud girl.) Paige moved to town when we were in fifth grade, and a year later I met Stephanie when our two grammar schools merged into junior high. Aside from my family, these people have known me longer than most everyone else in the world.

We’d only reconnected those two years ago. Prior to that, I hadn’t seen or been in touch with any of them since high school. But as I wrote then, it was effortless to reconnect with them, each of us having lived (at least) one full life since then. Like returning home to my tribe after venturing out into the big, bright world, this gathering felt just like that last one: warm, safe and joyful. The affection for each other was palpable. It feels oddly special and rare in a life that is already filled with friends and love.

We talked about how we were each misfits in our own way. And that maybe everyone felt like a misfit, but some were better at hiding it than others. I wonder if it’s a topic that is common among children coming of age in the 80s, with the unique problems our decade faced us with.

In some ways, it was that very decade that forged part of who we are—for the better, I’d say. Kids in a small rural farm town without endless resources and plenty of time on our hands to question who we were, what we were doing, unafraid to be bored and use that time dream and create. The introverted boy I was, spent hours and hours writing stories and books. It was the beginning of who I am and discovering what I love. Returning to these friends reminds me of important beginnings that we’re all grateful are long over.

I couldn’t wait to get away from my hometown, out into the world and get lost in it where I could figure out who I was and live in my own truth. Certainly, growing up gay in Indiana in the 80s wasn’t easy, but I had nothing to compare it to. Getting away and figuring out who I was and starting a life away from there was paramount to anything else. Yet there is something deeply healing about returning to my roots and these incredible friends who I spent thousands of days with.

I’m grateful to have reconnected with these amazing women. Our dinner was filled with laughter and support and…mostly laughter. When I went to bed that night back at my mom’s, I dreamt of them and our dinner together. As I texted them, it was “Nothing concrete. Just the memory. And warmth. And smiles.”