Rereading

I was ten when my mum gave me that glossy brown journal—Marie Antoinette’s young face gazing from the cover, complete with a tiny lock and key to guard my secrets. I wrote constantly in those early days. Daily events, conversations, how words made me feel, news that somehow seemed to matter to my small world. But mostly, I wrote to figure out who I was.

Childhood comparisons had done their damage early. I’d grown used to being measured against other kids, which sent me down a particular path: constantly crafting personas that might be more palatable, more admirable, simply *better* than whoever I actually was. Looking back at those early diaries now, they read like character studies—as if I was unconsciously preparing for a writing career that never materialized, disappointing what seemed to be my father’s brightest hopes for me.

Decades later, I still turn to writing for the same reason: to make sense of myself. Getting older, it turns out, didn’t automatically make me more adjusted to the world. If anything, the questions have gotten more complex, the contradictions more pronounced. The temptation to reinvent myself—to create yet another, better version—remains surprisingly strong.

I know what you’re thinking. *Have you tried therapy?* Yes, I’m in therapy. Not with a particularly strong sense of purpose or dramatic results, but I’m there, showing up, trying to untangle the same threads I’ve been pulling at since I was ten years old with a locked diary.

There’s something both comforting and unsettling about this consistency—that the fundamental questions haven’t changed, only deepened. Who am I when I’m not performing? What parts of myself am I still hiding, even from me? And perhaps most importantly: Is the search itself the point, or am I still waiting to arrive at some final, polished version of myself?

The journal pages don’t keep filling up anymore. I mostly struggle to find the time and the energy. What still keeps me connected to writing is the mechanics and tools. I still enjoy handwriting and pens.

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

Maya Angelou, l Know Why the Caged Bird Sings