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Reflecting on my teenage years through the lens of my diaries has been a surprising experience, revealing emotions that still resonate two decades later.
I had a wonderful aunt, whom I’ll call Aunt Clara, known for her witty sayings like, “Only truly beautiful women can pull off short hair,” and “Never underestimate the power of a hook or a can of paint.” Her advice often echoed in my mind, especially during the drive from Toronto to my hometown, a quaint lakeside community in eastern Ontario, which also inspired the setting of my debut novel, Every Summer After. One memorable trip was when I helped my mother clear out our family home before selling it. Aunt Clara handed me an egg salad sandwich and shared some practical wisdom: “Toss out the junk, don’t cry—this is tough enough on your mom. And when it’s time to leave, don’t look back.” I followed her instructions to the letter. We cleared out the clutter, I held back tears, and I didn’t look back—until a decade later.
In March 2020, while in lockdown with my husband and young son, I uncovered two shoeboxes tucked away in my closet. I had taken very little from our family home, but those boxes were special—they contained thirteen journals from my childhood to my early twenties. For the first time, I laid them out on my bed and delved into my past.
The oldest journal is a petite white diary adorned with harlequins and perfumed polka-dotted pages that still carry a hint of baby powder scent. As I inhaled the familiar fragrance, I was transported back to my childhood bedroom in Australia, where I lived until I was eight. It has a silver lock, the key to which I lost long ago, and I had even torn the spine to access my secrets. The first entry, dated 1991, hints at my future obsession with boys: “Tim kisst me today on the playground. I said whah!” (In reality, there’s no way Tim kissed me—I would’ve remembered such a momentous event. I was crafting stories even then.)
Most of the journals cover my life from fourth grade, when my family relocated to Barry’s Bay, to my high school years. The pages are filled with the dramas of girlhood: friendships gained and lost, complaints about my younger brother, and countless crushes. My teenage diaries are a treasure trove of memorabilia, including notes passed in class, a six-page letter from my best friend ending our friendship, and an invitation for two friends’ shared birthday party. One note from a boy I liked, scribbled on a torn piece of paper, and a letter I wrote but never sent to another crush reflect my youthful heart. A friend’s note complimenting my looks brought tears to my eyes—I never felt pretty as a teenager.
Reading those diaries reignited forgotten memories, like the night I spent at the winter formal watching movies with a boy I’d known since fourth grade. My friends and I even drafted a hilarious two-page plan for a trip we called The Ottawa Relaxation Vacation, stating, “The purpose of this trip is to relax and congratulate ourselves for surviving such a stressful school year.” When one of those friends passed away in the fall of 2020, I felt grateful for the notes I had saved—her spirit lives on in those pages.
Some entries made me laugh aloud. “I think I’m starting to like him, but he confuses me. Does he like me or not? He asks to borrow a pen every day—how juvenile! But I think he might like someone else. I don’t know! Grr!” Others struck a deeper chord, like a tear-stained entry at sixteen: “I wish I could just have platonic feelings because now it’s all f#*%@d up and it’s my dumb ass fault. He likes her. He talks to her all the time—we never talk at all anymore.” It’s astonishing how much I kept bottled up as a teenager, how poorly I communicated with my friends, even though we spent hours chatting. My diaries became the outlet for my unspoken thoughts and feelings.
Twenty years later, revisiting these emotions felt like plunging straight back into adolescence. Despite having a close-knit group of friends, I often felt isolated. While I cherish many happy memories, I don’t think I was a particularly joyful child. There was an overwhelming yearning for a “real” boyfriend but, more profoundly, for someone who truly saw and understood me.
A few months after rereading my diaries, my husband, son, and I stayed at a cottage near Barry’s Bay. Nostalgia for my childhood summers enveloped me, and as I embarked on writing a book, my journals and the voices of my friends echoed in my mind. I crafted Every Summer After as a love story about two thirteen-year-olds who, over six summers, evolve from best friends to lovers. I aimed to give my characters what I longed for as a young girl: a person who truly understood them—and, of course, someone they could kiss.
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Summary:
Reflecting on my teenage diaries revealed emotions that still resonate today. After a decade of moving on, I rediscovered thirteen journals filled with memories of friendships, crushes, and the challenges of growing up. These writings helped me process feelings I struggled to communicate during my adolescence. This journey inspired my debut novel, Every Summer After, where I aimed to craft characters that reflect the understanding and connection I craved in my youth.