My first job out of grad school was in Old Town, Alexandria, right outside of D.C.
With an enormous lobby, a few elevators & the always-friendly security guard, it felt like a small step toward adulting and a step or two removed from the debauchery of my earlier years.
And in contrast to today where, on average, people spend two, maybe three years at each company - I ended up making that company my long-term home.
It was a place where I’d grow up, learn about life, and business, and my co-workers and I would navigate our late 20s and early 30s —the ups & downs and weird transitions of those years.
We went from being single to married, from roommates to parents, and then we stumbled our way into adulthood, weighed down by mortgages, career pivots, & eventual daycare costs.
But through it all, we had a massive group of peers - friendships, really, that we built and then stuck with us, no matter how much time had passed.
And then, six years ago, I left.
I wanted to see if I could climb a different ladder, succeed, do it again, somewhere new, without the safety net of long-held relationships.
What I didn’t realize when I left - because it was pre-COVID - was that it would be my last job in an actual office.
And that the feeling of having an in-person, daily rhythm was something I’d end up chasing and missing more than I ever thought.
So when I got a text last week urging me to come to D.C. for an old coworker's retirement party, I booked my ticket without hesitation.
Amtrak, check. Hotel rez, check. Nervous energy, check.
It felt crazy heading back there after so many years.
And then I walked into that quiet Westin hotel bar at the corner of Jamieson Ave and Courthouse Square—corporate art, too-bright lights, bartenders a little jumpy. It was weird - but familiar - like stepping into an old routine I hadn’t realized I missed.
Then there were 30 or so familiar faces, most I hadn’t seen in years, all wearing easy, knowing smiles—the kind you exchange with people who were once part of your everyday life.
13 years I had once spent in that office.
That's 13 years of Starbucks runs, lunch breaks, beers.
Thirteen years of war rooms, board rooms, meeting rooms, of happy hours and hangovers, of ups and downs.
There was a lifetime packed into that decade—of relationships you can’t fake, can’t force.
Because what I know now that it’s gone - those friendships aren’t borne in Slack, they’re not fostered over Zoom, you can’t schedule it or filter for it.
They’re in the everyday monotony of office life—the kind of bullshit that, when shared, somehow becomes less bullshit and more… connection.
These daily interactions, repeated again and again over the course of years, accumulate like compound interest.
You learn the quirks, the habits, the morning people, the tea drinkers, the desk decorators and microwave hogs, the loud talkers and office stragglers.
There was the click of Liz’s boots, the deep baritone of Ollen’s voice. How loud Marthe blew her nose (love you, Marthe), how fiercely Kerra loved Alabama football, and how much Lee's boys loved playing soccer.
Rebekah had the most infectious laugh, Roger the shittiest sarcasm, and Bleeker the most witty banter. Brian was a Potbelly purist, Jeremy a food court loyalist, and Tom ate only fresh salads, Deirdre not far behind with the homemade dressing.
Literally thousands of shared meals; fridge chats; the whiteboard sessions and the kind of stuff that - in hindsight - was the foundation of something bigger.
All these details—just short lines in the underlying code of our corporate culture.
Last night, seeing everyone again, was a stark reminder of what we had—and what's also, inevitably, irrevocably changed.
Because we weren’t just “colleagues”, we were a cohort, a band of misfits, a group of oddballs shaped by marketing campaigns & annual blowout parties, the joy and chaos of Pizza Day, the slow accumulation of inside jokes that became our cultural shorthand.
And in that room last night, all 30 people added their own piece to the story.
Robert—everyone called him Bro—helped fill the empty spaces of my life when my dad passed away. Shannon had the best hugs, Kerra of course hated hugs - but always let me ignore that, anyway. Max K. - always brilliant - working on whatever he wanted; Gus, my marketing wizard, the landing page deity, and Kevin, who drove three hours, drank too much, and crashed in the lobby with a smile.
Bekah’s twins, Randy’s kids, everyone’s kids, I remembered—Sofia and Nico, David and Kaleb, Noah, Haley, Misha. Angus and Edie. Lacey’s son, Charlie. And, of course, lil’ Gus.
We laughed about Mac’s Costco wardrobe, Chris’s new podcast, John’s beautiful flower farm.
That happy hour wasn’t just drinks - it was a moment to look at the social graph we built—how it evolved, how it fractured, and how, in some ways, it still holds.
Because even though the office is gone, some of the underlying code remains.
No doubt, things are just different today.
Everything’s behind a screen.
The gravitational pull of shared space is weaker.
The rhythm of clocking in and out has faded.
And that’s okay. This isn’t a eulogy (although I'm giving it a good run!)
Change is inevitable -- and necessary.
Being remote means better access to talent, flexible schedules, improved family structures.
It means working from Breckenridge, or Bali, or Bangladesh.
It’s all forward momentum—we can’t cling to the past, however favorably we remember it.
But that doesn’t mean we can’t acknowledge the loss, the realization that something has shifted.
It’s like watching a neighborhood turn...
The old memories remain, but the landmarks have been replaced, & all the old bars are closing their doors.
