It’s the summer of 2009. The sun is offering the bare minimum for June, but I have my back to the window, methodically typing out a letter to Lady Gaga. The two-page-long document is full of personal details and intimate thoughts, such as the worry I’ll never feel good enough or fit in at school. I pour my heart out to her and swim in the subsequent dopamine hits of a perfect one-way relationship.
I never told anyone about my love for Lady Gaga due to the shame of looking like an over-obsessive fangirl. While there’s now a cultural roadmap for teen girls idolising their favourite boybands, back then I had no idea how to showcase my obsession without looking unhinged.
