I have been writing stories about my life since I was twelve years old. The ink flowed from my pen, capturing moments, emotions, and secrets. But at eighteen, I hesitated. I sensed the risk of continuing to chronicle my experiences—the danger that someone might read my innermost thoughts. It was no coincidence that this realization coincided with my first boyfriend. His arrival brought with it tales of stolen kisses, fumbling hands, and clandestine rendezvous. You see, in every story involving a diary, there’s always an inconvenient reader who disrupts the delicate balance of drama. I didn’t want that interference in my life.
“Why write,” I wondered, “if I didn’t want anyone to read?”
The irony lies in the year I began my diary—a year when I nearly drowned. It was Holy Thursday, and I found myself on a well-known beach during my first trip to the United States. Strangely, I left no record of that near-death experience. Not a single mention! Instead, I filled those pages with what mattered most at the time: finishing my second year of high school. I meticulously listed the boys I’d liked that school year, and I noted that I would turn fourteen soon. Somehow, two years of my life fit into those twenty pages, with room to spare. I calculated my age down to the hour: “When I turn fourteen on September 28, 1983, at 3:00 PM, I’ll have lived for 168 months, 5110 days, and 203,280 hours. Oh, how ancient I’ll be!” (Of course, my math skills were questionable even then—my actual hours of life were 122,640, as I calculate now.)
My youthful fantasies included the idea that my life story would outlive me. I imagined sharing it with my future children, passing down tales of my adventures and heartaches. But reality intervened swiftly—they weren’t interested. I once tried to bond with my fifteen-year-old daughter by showing her my teenage diaries. It was meant to be a mother-daughter connection, but she yawned like an oyster. Those stories belonged to a bygone era, devoid of cell phones and the internet.
The word that echoes most across my three diaries from ages thirteen to eighteen is “God.” “God, help me,” “Thank you, God,” and my favorite: “God willing!” I invoked these phrases at the beginning or end of each day’s entry. Curiously, guilt and regret also recur—the feeling that abandoning my diary for weeks somehow invalidated my experiences. I feared that the good moments would slip from memory. Back then, there were no camera-equipped cell phones or Instagram to capture memories in pixels.
My handwriting was rounder then, my dreams sweeter. Challenges revolved around acing exams, and adventures centered on interactions with boys. Sometimes, the unusual became significant—like the occasional family outing instead of watching reruns on hot Saturdays in my hometown of Valencia.
During quarantine, revisiting those pages from my twelve- and thirteen-year-old self makes sense. The “I wish” moments that did come true, the prayers answered, and the adventures that once set my emotions ablaze—now they seem both monumental and trivial. If I’d made peace with my house before, now I’ve reconciled with my past and my inner child. She was responsible, determined, and often fearful, yet she steadily pursued her goals.
Recently, my mother handed me a treasure trove—those scattered diaries and notebooks from my youth. They held memories, not just for me, but for her too. Perhaps they’re a testament to resilience—the ink-stained proof that we survive, grow, and leave traces of our existence, even when the world seems indifferent.