Dear Diary... Wait, This Is a Blog Now?!

Once upon a time, in the magical era of butterfly hair clips and glitter pens, there was a trend so powerful, so sacred, that every 10-year-old girl swore loyalty to it with the kind of seriousness reserved for royal oaths and Spice Girls fan mail.

I’m talking, of course, about the friendship diary.

I remember. The sparkly A5 notebook passed around the classroom like contraband. The first page always started with:

• Name:

• Nickname:

• Favorite Color:

• Dream Job:

• Who Do You Like? 😏

Ah yes, the Who Do You Like question. The one we answered with the full seriousness of a sworn testimony in court, most often we just signed it with initials of our crush. Later realize our crush looked like a prepubescent onion patch doll with a bowl cut. But in those days, revealing your secret love in a glitter-covered diary was peak vulnerability. It was our personal version of “The Crown” meets “Gossip Girl.”

As I got older and hormonal chaos hit like a teenage hurricane, I evolved. I graduated from friendship diaries to full-blown, angst-drenched personal diaries. Usually written on the back pages of my math notebook (I'm sorry, algebra, but my emotional development was more important than X and Y’s twisted relationship).

Eventually, I upgraded to a secret notebook, with a fake name on the cover like “Notes on Animals” or “My Geography Journal,” which obviously made no sense because I wasn't interested in these topics at that time. Inside: pages upon pages of over-analyzing a look from a classmate, deep emotional monologues about my family problems, first "real" love and the philosophical musings of someone who’d just heard Avril Lavigne’s “Complicated” for the first time.

That diary was my sacred space.

Until…Someone. Found. It.

Cue horror movie music.

It was like my entire soul had been broadcast on national TV. I was mortified. I tried to pretend it wasn’t mine. (“Tina? No, this not belongs to me...)

That was the dramatic end of my handwritten diary days. Since then, I’ve only confided in chocolate and a very judgmental houseplant.

And yet here I am. Writing a blog. A PUBLIC one.

Let’s pause to appreciate the irony. I hear sarcastic applause😏

At ten, I hid my feelings behind unicorn stickers. At fourteen, I hid them under my mattress. And now? I’m casually publishing my thoughts on the internet where anyone with Wi-Fi and low standards can read them.

Blogging is kind of like a diary… if your diary had strangers peeking in, offering unsolicited opinions, and occasionally commenting, “Cool post. Want me to promote it for $5?”

It’s wild. Some days, I love it. I pour my heart out, sip tea, feel like a vulnerable literary goddess. Other days, I panic. Who am I even talking to? Is this thing on? Is anyone out there?! Or am I just whispering into the digital void while Instagram bots try to sell me hair gummies, skin cream and magic make up foundation?

Honestly, my self-confidence rides a rollercoaster. Sometimes I think, “This is brilliant!” And five minutes later I’m Googling “How to know if your blog is trash and your friends are just being polite.”

So, dear reader — if you’re still here, if you’ve laughed (or at least snorted), or even if you just mildly exhaled through your nose in amusement — I’m asking for a tiny favor.

Let me know.

Hit the like button. Drop a comment. Send my post (your favorite) to your friends with a “LOL this reminds me of you.” Follow me on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, or send a raven. I’m not picky. You don’t have to write me a love letter (although, let’s be honest, that would be cute), but a little “Hi Tina, I see you!” goes a long way.

Because deep down, this blog is still my diary. Only now, instead of hiding it under my mattress, I’ve placed it on a virtual shelf with neon lights and said, “Hey world, read this, and please don’t think I’m completely insane.”

So from the sparkly friendship diaries of our childhood to this big messy digital one — thank you for being here. THANK YOU. And if you’re secretly still keeping a diary and hiding it in your sock drawer... just remember to hide it better than I did.

And maybe don’t title it “Definitely Not Tina’s Diary – Private.”

We’ve all learned.