In the present, I often reflect on the fact that I’m not as sophisticated and accomplished as I thought I’d be by this point in my life: I don’t like ‘chic’ cocktails, don’t have a capsule wardrobe or even really know what it is I like half of the time. I spend more time than I care to admit ruminating over what has passed me by, the time I’ve wasted and the opportunities I didn’t take.

For once, by looking backwards instead of forwards, I’ve found a sense of comfort. It took me back to all those times when I worried about the opinions of people I now hardly remember, and the times when my life felt like it was going to end, but didn’t. My diaries unlocked the versions of myself I’d forgotten or dismissed, but now I feel proud of the person I was in those moments of insecurity and longing. I just wish I could reach back through the pages and tell her it was all going to be OK in the end.

“Rereading my old diaries is excruciating – but they help soothe my time anxiety”