Yesterday I learned, by way of Facebook, that someone I went to high school with passed away. I didn’t know her well, but I remember her. It saddened me, but it also warmed my heart to see people come together—old classmates consoling one another, sharing memories, reconnecting in a quiet way.
Scrolling through the comments, I recognized so many names and faces. It got me thinking about something I’ve come to think of as “classes.”
“Classes,” for lack of a better word, are the groups we move through in different eras of our lives. Daren once used the term when I was trying to describe a moment at work—two former colleagues crossing paths, exchanging nothing more than eye contact and a subtle nod. No words, just recognition. A shared history. A quiet understanding.
A class.
Like high school. Like the military. Like a job, a training, a season of life.
My graduating class had over 500 students, and even now, decades later, I recognize almost every face. Time has passed, but something about that shared experience remains. It’s a bond that doesn’t disappear, even when life moves on.
I’ve had many of these “classes” in my life—military assignments, work teams, yoga training, even neighborhoods and childhood bus rides. Not all of them carry the same weight, but each holds something.
A few, though, run deeper.
My high school class.
My first ship in the Coast Guard.
My time in Primary Care at the VA.
Those groups feel like family. Not perfect, not always easy—but familiar. Safe. There’s a comfort that doesn’t require explanation.
Even the lighter connections carry something. When I meet someone from the Coast Guard, or from Long Island, there’s an instant recognition. A subtle shift. Like something in me already knows them.
That feeling—that quiet recognition—is why the word Namaste has come to mean more to me over time.
Not just a greeting, but an acknowledgment:
I see something in you that I recognize in myself.
It’s always there, but we don’t always notice it.
Moments like this—watching people come together, remembering someone they shared a piece of life with—remind me that those connections matter. That the threads between us don’t disappear.
And that recognizing them, even quietly, is a gift.
Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!
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