Reflecting on My Teenage Diaries: A Journey Through Time

Revisiting my teenage diaries two decades later was an unexpectedly emotional experience. The feelings captured within those pages felt astonishingly fresh.

My Aunt Jenna was a wise woman known for her memorable sayings, such as, “Only truly stunning individuals can rock short hair.” (She had sported a pixie cut since the ’70s.) She also advised, “Never underestimate the significance of a good hook — or a paint can. Stay curious and skeptical.”

During my drives from Toronto to my small hometown of Maple Lake, nestled in eastern Ontario and the inspiration for my debut novel, Summer Days, I often made a pit stop at my aunt and uncle’s house. I vividly recall the day I traveled north to assist my mom in clearing out our family home before selling it. Aunt Jenna handed me an egg salad sandwich and offered some sage advice: “Toss out all the junk. Don’t cry; this is hard enough on your mom. And when it’s time to leave, don’t look back.”

I followed her advice to the letter. We discarded all the unnecessary items, I held back my tears, and I didn’t glance back. Until, that is, ten years later.

In March 2020, while in lockdown with my husband and four-year-old son, I unearthed two shoeboxes from my closet’s depths. I hadn’t taken much when we cleaned the house, but those boxes were special. Inside were thirteen journals I’d filled from the age of seven through my early twenties. For the first time, I spread them out on my bed and began to read.

The earliest was a small white diary adorned with harlequin designs and perfumed polka-dotted paper that still held a faint baby powder scent. When I inhaled the pages, I was transported back to my childhood bedroom in Australia, where I lived from ages three to eight. The diary had a silver lock whose key I lost long ago, and I had torn the spine to access its contents. The first entry from 1991 hinted at my future obsession with boys, stating, “Tim kissed me today on the playground. I said, ‘whah!’” (However, I can assure you that Tim never kissed me — I would have remembered such a significant moment. I was crafting stories even back then.)

Most of the journals cover the years from when my family relocated from Australia to Maple Lake until I graduated high school. They document the ups and downs of girlhood, the friendships forged and lost, complaints about my younger brother, and countless crushes. My teenage diaries are stuffed with mementos: notes exchanged in class, a six-page letter from my best friend ending our friendship, and an invite to two friends’ sixteenth birthday bash. I found a torn piece of paper with an email address from a guy I had a crush on, along with a letter I composed to express my feelings that I never sent. One friend’s note, complimenting me on looking “exceptionally pretty, glamorous, and beautiful today,” made me tear up — I never felt pretty back then.

Reading the diaries reminded me of moments I had forgotten, like the night of the winter formal spent watching movies with a friend I’d known since fourth grade. I also discovered a hilarious two-page memo my friends and I created for a trip we dubbed The Maple Lake Relaxation Escape, outlining our “purpose, materials, and method.” The memo stated, “The purpose of this trip is to unwind and reward ourselves for surviving a stressful school year.” When one of those friends passed away in the fall of 2020, I felt grateful to have kept her notes and to have revisited those happy memories.

Some entries had me laughing out loud. “I think I’m starting to like him, but he confuses me. Does he like me or not? He asks me for a pen every day — how juvenile! But I think he might like someone else. I don’t know! Grr!” Others were tear-stained, like the one written at sixteen about a different boy, revealing, “I wish I could just have platonic feelings because now it’s all messed up and it’s my fault. He likes her. He talks to her all the time — we never talk anymore.” It’s astonishing how much I bottled up as a teenager, struggling to communicate with friends even after hours of phone conversations. I didn’t confide in my parents about my internal struggles—those diaries became my sanctuary for processing my emotions.

What struck me most about revisiting those times was how raw the emotions still felt, as though I was thrust back into my adolescence. I had a close circle of girlfriends, yet I often felt isolated. While I cherish many memories from those years, I don’t think I was particularly happy. There was a longing for a “real” boyfriend, but more deeply, I yearned to be truly seen and heard by a friend who understood me.

A few months after reading my diaries, my family and I stayed at a cottage near Maple Lake. Nostalgia for my childhood summers enveloped me, and as I contemplated writing a book, my diaries and the voices of my friends lingered in my thoughts. I penned Summer Days as a love story about two thirteen-year-olds who become best friends and eventually fall in love over six summers. I wanted my characters to experience what I had longed for—someone who truly understood them, and of course, someone they could kiss.

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In summary, revisiting my teenage diaries was a powerful experience. It allowed me to reflect on the complexity of my emotions during those formative years, inspiring me to create characters in my novel who seek the understanding and connection I craved.

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