On the 20th January, my 18th birthday, Naddie gave me this journal. As I held it in my hands and ran my fingers over the smooth leather cover, I couldn't help but think it meaningful. This was not a blank notebook destined to have its first two pages filled, then be forgotten in my desk drawer.

As I began writing my first entry, I believed this diary would not only make me a better writer, but also give me confidence in my own voice.

After all, so many authors I admire have diaries. Perhaps I could follow their footsteps until I find my own way. So for the past week, I have diligently written an entry every day, pouring out my thoughts and feelings onto its pages.

And yet, when I read back my own words, I am repulsed.

Every day, I took care to capture details about my friends. With each line, I have done my best to depict their personality through text. And in each of those lines, I erased myself.

Even in the smallest details, I ignored myself. The Maths exam Max failed, I aced. The whisky we drank on Friday was the first alcohol I ever bought. I hacked away at my experiences until my personal victories ended up ravaged on the chopping board.

I don’t know how to shine like my friends. I’ve known them my whole life, they are my best friends, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world. But next to their bright colours, I feel like an insignificant grey blob gasping for air, as if the very atmosphere isn’t right for me.

When we are together, our energy shines with laughter and inside jokes. They have this light about them that engulfs me too, letting me hide away.

Their glow lets me be a part of “we” rather than “me”. They make it easier to ignore the parts of myself that I've never really liked. I can forget about my insecurities until I'm back in my silent bedroom.

But I worry this is heading into purple prose territory. If there’s one thing I can do in this world, it’s write. I should at least be good at it.

Determination will only take me so far, but I hope to write this diary for as long as possible. I hope that my writing will improve and that I will like myself more. I hope that by the end, I’ll look at this passage and laugh because these worries no longer consume me.

I hope, I hope, I hope.

This is my diary. It is my story. But I need to find the good in me to be its hero.