I’ll be attending my high school reunion in a few weeks, which has me wondering…

What would the 18-year-old kid from Cambridge back in 1973 think about the 72-year-old man looking back at him from 2026?

I know one thing for sure.

He’d be surprised that he made it that far into the future.

I imagine he’d have questions.

He’d want to know why he’s wearing hearing aids. He’d probably be somewhat alarmed to learn that one day he’ll have his hip replaced and then, just two years later, have a knee replaced as well.

I’d have to explain that apparently some of the original equipment wasn’t designed for 72 years of use.

But I think what would really make him laugh would be learning that someday he’ll be the father of five beautiful daughters.

He grew up in a house with five boys.

Girls were something of a mystery.

And yet this kid will eventually change what seems like a million diapers. He’ll learn to brush hair and make ponytails. He’ll pick out outfits that match. He’ll read fairy tales and sit through an endless procession of princesses, Mary Poppins, The Sound of Music and cartoons in which everyone is nice and not one anvil is ever dropped on anyone’s head.

Not one.

And there will be crying.

Lots of crying.

Sometimes he’ll even know why.

But eventually I think the questions from that 18-year-old would become more serious.

Did I do okay?

That’s the question that stops me.

Because suddenly I’m no longer wondering what the boy would ask the old man.

I’m wondering what the old man would want the boy to know.

And I wouldn’t tell him which career to choose. I wouldn’t warn him about mistakes. I wouldn’t give him stock tips or tell him which roads to avoid.

I’d want to talk about something he already believes about himself.

Something he has carried since grade school.

He doesn’t think he’s as gifted as many of the people around him.

Knowledge doesn’t always come as easily to him as it seems to come to some of his classmates. He sometimes struggles to understand things that others seem to grasp immediately.

I wouldn’t tell him that he’s wrong.

I’d tell him that someday he will discover something he doesn’t yet understand about himself.

You’re curious.

You want to know how things work.

More importantly, you want to know how people work.

Why do people think the way they do?

What motivates them?

Why do they love?

Why do they hurt one another?

Why do they forgive?

Why do some people enter our lives for only a short time yet somehow remain with us forever?

You don’t know it yet, kid, but those questions are going to follow you for the rest of your life.

For many years that curiosity will be pointed outward.

You’ll want to figure things out. Solve problems. Accomplish things. Protect people. Raise children. Work. Run. Ride. Compete. Finish.

You’ll spend decades learning how to do things.

And then, much later, something rather unexpected will happen.

Your curiosity will turn around.

You’ll begin wondering about yourself.

You’ll discover there was another journey taking place underneath all that doing.

You’ll start asking different questions.

Who am I when I’m no longer trying to accomplish something?

Why did certain people matter so much to me?

What do I believe?

What is faith?

Why do I still carry some moments from childhood while entire years have disappeared from memory?

What should be held onto?

What can finally be released?

What does it mean to love someone?

What does it mean to forgive someone?

What does it mean to forgive yourself?

And perhaps the strangest thing I could tell that 18-year-old boy is this:

At 72, you still won’t have figured it all out.

And you’re going to be okay with that.

You’ll still be curious.

Still changing.

Still discovering things about yourself.

Still trying to understand the people around you.

Still asking questions about faith and relationships and gratitude and what constitutes a life well lived.

The boy who once worried that he didn’t have enough answers will eventually become an old man who has learned to appreciate the questions.

And somewhere along the way, gratitude will become one of life’s greatest gifts.

So maybe that’s what I’d tell him.

Not advice.

Not a warning.

And certainly not a roadmap for the next fifty-three years.

I’d simply slide a blank page across the table.

I think the 18-year-old might look at it for a moment, then look back at me, waiting for some explanation.

And I’d tell him:

Curiosity and a blank page are precious gifts.

Never lose the first one.

And don’t be afraid to use the second.

There will be people who help you along the way. People who love you, teach you, challenge you, disappoint you, forgive you and sometimes change you without ever knowing they did.

They will become part of your story.

But they cannot write it for you.

Only you can do that.

So stay curious, kid.

Keep asking questions.

And when you find yourself staring at a blank page, wondering what comes next, don’t worry so much about knowing the answer.

Just start writing.

It’s your life story.