In the midst of a move some years back, I came across my handmade sixth-grade diary. Reading some of the entries, I chuckled when I got to the parts about being overwhelmed with feelings about a boy who barely acknowledged my existence.
I chuckled, that is, until I found myself thinking that I could have written some of the very same things the previous week about a man over whom I had been obsessing.
And I felt sad when I realized I had not yet shed some of my earlier insecurities and habits of thought that by now I’d hoped to have outgrown.
