Recently a friend told me she had decided to get rid of all the journals and notebooks she’d filled with years of morning pages, journaling, short stories, poetry, teenage angst, and young adult musings. She had hauled boxes of journals from home to home over the years. During her most recent move, she looked at those boxes and wondered what she was holding on to. She knew no one would ever read the contents, including herself, so she took a bold step and tossed them.
Her fresh start got me thinking about who I am and who I was. I, too, have journals stashed on the bookshelf from my college days, early adult years, and first years of marriage. I wonder if the girl from those journals would recognize me now. Would she be impressed or disappointed? Or a little of both? Some dreams from those earlier years were never realized or set aside. Yet some dreams the younger me never knew were even possible were uncovered.
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