Sometimes, at the most inconvenient of times, I rediscover my old diary and spend hours flicking through the pages. If I told you that I started it in year 9 and finished it after my A-Levels, you’d probably be pretty impressed with my level of commitment. What I’d most definitely leave out of that conversation is how wildly inconsistent those diary entries were. With the majority of pages beginning with some variation on “So, It’s been a while”, my life between the ages of fourteen and eighteen fits into one singular notebook. Give me some credit, though – I tried! Did you even keep a diary? Yeah, thought so. Let’s keep this a judgment-free zone.

“Why, if I have such an extreme reaction to my diary’s content, do I read it more often than my lecture notes?”

From crushes to friendships to a lovely to-scale drawing of my retainer, it’s not the most thrilling of reads. I find myself fighting the urge to curl up into a ball and grit my teeth as I read a particularly cringe-worthy extract. If you think I’m being dramatic, try reading this genuine defence of one of my Year 9 crushes: “he doesn’t make racist or offensive jokes and is quite decent I think”. The bar was so low. So why, if I have such an extreme reaction to my diary’s content, do I read it more often than my lecture notes?

Typically a diary is a ‘for my eyes only’ situation, but I distinctly remember writing my diary for others to eventually read. Perhaps I didn’t trust the notebook’s flimsy lock, or maybe it was a plea for attention or possibly I had a premonition that I would one day be sharing it with Varsity … regardless, there is a distinctive lack of deep dark secrets (not that I had any), a multitude of compliments to various friends and family and a sprinkling of self-depreciation.

“Writing for an audience meant making a cooler, more interesting version of my life”

Would I have been embarrassed if my dairy had been shared around the school? Most definitely. Would I have secretly hoped such an event would place me right in the centre of a real-life teen rom-com? Duh! At the time, subconsciously writing for an audience meant making a cooler, more interesting version of my life. Reading it in 2024, all attempts at ‘cooler’ and ‘more interesting’ are exactly what makes my toes curl. While I can’t escape how absolutely mortifying it is, my daily musings are undeniably hilarious to look back on.

Take my irrational, and completely absurd, fear of height-involved games and icebreakers: “We had to line up in height order (worst thing ever) so it was really awkward. I was not with my friends as they are all average height”. Though I’m proud to say both my height and confidence have grown, I still take myself by surprise: “So I had school again. This morning I actually got up on time!”. I will always be a sleepy girl.

What I’ve left out of these quotes is how horrendous my spelling was at the ripe age of fourteen. Some of my favourites include my “chrush” who “smieles” at me and my “orphodontist opiontment” where I “reilised” I needed braces. I like to think my spelling has somewhat improved, though autocorrect has lent a hand.

“Once a moment is over, we no longer own it”

I think the main reason I find myself reaching for the diary is nostalgia. There is something so fascinating about reconnecting with a different version of myself. I guess I’m a bit obsessed with my past. Does that make me a narcissist? Potentially, though I’d prefer to brand myself as a memory hoarder. I’m not particularly precious about objects but I have an enormous collection of pictures, videos and diary-esque writings – you should see my Snapchat memories. Change, while constant and necessary, will always be bittersweet. Once a moment is over, we no longer own it. It’s the classic ‘sad that it’s over, happy that it happened’ spiel. I’m sure everyone has experienced those moments of introspection: standing with a group of friends, singing your heart out at a concert, sitting alone watching the stars. It’s your own movie moment where you remember this is happening right now and soon it won’t be. It’s not sad, really – I find it quite peaceful. One of my last diary entries (written in the middle of the night after finishing the series 2125 – if you know, you know) sums this up:

“I am truly beginning to feel what bittersweet is. That moment where something ends. You are glad it has happened but sad you are leaving it behind. The moments where you reflect on the past while looking to the future and being within the present. Bittersweet is beautiful and I crave it and hate it. It is heartbreaking but comforting. It hurts and you smile. It is very human and I like it. My heart hurts to think about how time is passing. The moments that feel like they will last forever will move on. It is running away from us and becomes only a memory before we even realise. Some we hold on to and treasure and some are lost but I think they must all stay within us somewhere.”

Clearly, a midnight poet in the making. The early morning hours always reveal the pretentious parts of my personality. You just know I spelt ‘smile’ and ‘realise’ wrong too …