Memories
Reflecting on my teenage diaries two decades later was an unexpected journey into emotions that still felt intensely vivid.
My Aunt Clara, a wise woman, had a few favorite sayings: “Only truly beautiful women can rock short hair.” (She had sported a pixie cut since the ’70s.) “Never underestimate the impact of a hook — or a paint can.” “Stay curious. Stay skeptical.”
Whenever I drove from Toronto to my hometown, Lakeside Hamlet — a quaint spot in eastern Ontario and the inspiration for my debut novel, Summer Days Ahead — I often dropped by Aunt Clara and Uncle Tom’s place. I vividly remember a particular trip up north to help my mom clear out our family home before selling it. Clara handed me an egg salad sandwich and offered some sage advice: “Toss out all the junk. Don’t cry; it’ll be tough enough on your mom. And when it’s time to leave, don’t look back.”
I followed her guidance meticulously. We discarded everything that was no longer needed. I didn’t shed a tear. I didn’t look back. Not until a decade later.
In March 2020, while in lockdown with my husband and four-year-old son, I decided to rummage through the back of my closet. I hadn’t taken much when we cleared out the house, but I did keep two shoeboxes filled with treasures. Inside were thirteen journals I had kept from age seven to my early twenties. For the first time, I placed them on my bed and began to read.
The earliest journal is a petite white diary adorned with harlequins and fragrant polka-dotted pages that still carry a hint of baby powder. As I breathe in its scent, I’m transported back to my childhood bedroom in Australia, where I lived from ages three to eight. It features a small silver lock, but the key was lost long ago; I had even torn the spine to access its contents. The first entry, dated 1991, hints at my ongoing obsession with boys: “Tim kisst me today on the playground. I said whah!” (In reality, there’s no chance Tim kissed me — I would’ve remembered such a monumental moment. I was spinning tales even then.)
Most of the journals cover the years from fourth grade, when my family moved from Australia to Lakeside Hamlet, to the end of high school. They are filled with the melodrama of girlhood, stories of friendships formed and fractured, complaints about my younger brother, and endless crushes. My teenage diaries are a treasure trove of keepsakes: notes exchanged in class, a six-page letter from my best friend breaking up with me, and an invitation to a joint birthday party for two friends. I also found a paper corner with an email address from a boy I liked and a letter I wrote to a crush confessing my feelings, which I never sent. One note from a friend, telling me I looked “exceptionally pretty, glamorous, and beautiful today,” brought tears to my eyes — I never thought of myself as pretty back then.
Reading through the diaries was a delightful reminder of things I had completely forgotten. Like the winter formal night spent watching movies with a childhood friend, or how my friends and I crafted a hilarious two-page memo outlining our “purpose, materials, and method” for a girls’ trip we called The Ottawa Relaxation Vacation. “The purpose of this trip is to unwind and celebrate surviving a stressful school year.” When one of those friends passed away in the fall of 2020, I was grateful to have her notes — pieces of her would always remain with me.
Some entries made me burst out laughing: “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 fancy someone else. I don’t know! Grr!” Others were drenched in tears, like the one I wrote at sixteen about another boy: “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 anymore.” It’s astonishing how much I bottled up as a teenager, how poorly I communicated with friends, even though we spent hours on the phone. I didn’t share my inner turmoil with my parents; my diaries were my emotional outlet.
What struck me about revisiting these writings so many years later was how raw those feelings still felt. It was as if I had been thrown back into my adolescence. I had a close-knit group of girlfriends, yet I often felt isolated. While I have many fond memories from that time, I don’t think I was a particularly happy child. There was a constant yearning for a “real” relationship, but beneath that was a deeper desire to be truly seen and understood.
A few months after revisiting my journals, my husband, son, and I stayed at a cottage near Lakeside Hamlet. Nostalgia for my childhood summers washed over me, and when I decided to write a book, I realized my diaries and the voices of my friends were influencing me. I crafted Summer Days Ahead as a love story about two thirteen-year-olds who become best friends over six summers and, naturally, fall in love. I wanted to give my characters what I longed for as a young girl: a companion who truly understood them.
And of course, someone they could share a kiss with.
Carla Thomas is a Canadian journalist with a background as an editor for various publications. She resides in Toronto with her husband and two sons. Summer Days Ahead is her debut novel.
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In summary, revisiting my teenage diaries was a powerful emotional experience that not only rekindled memories but also inspired my writing. Through my characters, I aimed to recreate the understanding and connection I yearned for in my youth, while also reflecting on the complexities of teenage emotions.