Richelle Hofer

The other night I laughed so hard I thought the cops might actually show up to investigate. My best friend from high school and I were sitting in our little Airbnb cottage in Franklin, Tennessee, reminiscing about the old days. At one point, I reminded her of a secret crush I had back in our freshman year. She about fell off the couch—full-on scream-laughing, clutching her side, and gasping for breath. I laughed so hard right along with her that tears were rolling down my cheeks.

And that wasn’t our only trip down memory lane. Somewhere between coffee shops and late-night talks, we rehashed one of our most ridiculous high school adventures: the mannequin leg. When JC Penney’s closed in our town, my friend and another girl from our group somehow bought a mannequin leg for fifty cents. Just the leg. That goofy plastic limb became our running joke. One of our friends carried it around with her, and for reasons that now make absolutely no sense (but made perfect sense at 17), we held it out the window of the car while cruising the loop in town. Ridiculous. And also hilarious.

But alongside the laughter, there were tears too. Our high school years weren’t just filled with crazy teenage antics. We dealt with some heavy stuff. Right as our junior year was wrapping up, our school was destroyed in a flood. I can still picture teachers standing in the hallways passing out big black trash bags, telling us to grab what we could and get out. We emptied our lockers into those bags—books, papers, half-forgotten treasures—and drove away for what would be the last time. For some people it might sound strange to call that traumatic, but that building held so many of our memories. And just like that, it was gone.

Then, only a few months later, as we were heading into our senior year, one of our 14 classmates lost her life in a tragic accident. Our tiny class—our family—was shattered. Senior year was not the same. It was not how any of us had pictured it would be. To make matters heavier, the following spring we attended another funeral, this time for a mutual friend from another school who also died in a car accident. Two funerals in one year at that age… it left a mark on all of us. Our senior year ended up being held in the old Northwestern Public Service office building—a practical solution, but a reminder that the “normal” high school experience had been swept away.

So when my friend and I talked on this trip—really talked—we revisited those losses too. We remembered exactly where we were when we got the news about our classmate, the moments that are forever etched into our memories, and the weight of grief we carried as teenagers who didn’t yet know how to process it. We cried together—maybe for the first time since those days. And it was healing.

That’s the thing about old friends: they hold not just your laughter, but also your shared wounds. They don’t need you to explain yourself, justify your quirks, or provide the backstory—they already know it. They’ve seen you through every awkward phase, every heartbreak, every joy, and every loss. They know you in context. And there’s a freedom in that—an ease you just can’t manufacture with new acquaintances.

Life, of course, has a way of scattering us—kids, careers, moves, schedules. Years slip by without a real conversation. We keep up in curated snapshots on social media, or by exchanging random memes but it’s not the same. There’s no substitute for being with someone who remembers the unfiltered version of you—the one who knew your secrets, who sat in the passengers seat of your first car, who laughed with you until your sides ached, who carried the same grief when life cracked open too soon.

So here’s my takeaway from our trip: staying connected—or reconnecting—with old friends is worth it. Worth the drive, the flight, the rearranged calendar, the lost sleep. Because in a world that often values appearances over authenticity, having someone who knows your whole story—the silly, the sacred, and even the sad—is one of the biggest gifts you can receive.

If you’ve been looking for permission to book that girls’ trip, here it is. I came home lighter, happier, and filled back up in ways I didn’t know I needed. My husband was onboard from the start, but after seeing the difference when I got back, he said, “Hmm, maybe you two need to figure out how to do this twice a year.”