July 15, 2019. The day after my first big breakup. According to the little dog-eared five-year diary I keep in the drawer next to my bed, I cycled into work in my biggest pair of sunglasses and my best friend met me on a bench with a packet of Sainsbury’s strawberry pencils because I couldn’t face the thought of going home to my flat.
The same day the following year looked pretty different, unsurprisingly. This frightening thing called coronavirus had arrived (yep, we still used the long version back then) and apparently I did two workouts in my parents’ garden because there was literally nothing else to do. I won’t bore you with the details of my 2021 and 2022 entries because they largely involve dates with men who turned out to be, well, early-days Dexters — a reference you’ll understand if you’ve ever binged and blubbered over One Day, David Nicholls’ famed novel-turned-Netflix adaptation like me.
Still, my July 15ths haven’t all been breakups and lockdown boredom. In fact, apparently it was the 2023 edition that saw me walk into a pub garden, unknowing that I was about to meet the three future housemates who would introduce me to some of the women I’d call my BFFs today. It’s funny, really, the benefit of hindsight and how much can change in a year or five.
I picked this particular date for obvious reasons, of course. It’s the same date you probably have etched into your mind, too, if like me you’ve spent time devouring Netflix’s new One Day miniseries starring Leo Woodall and Amika Mod. But the truth is I could’ve picked any day of the year. Thanks to my trusty bedside journal, I don’t just have the one One Day to look back on. I have 365 — a fact that comes with the fascinating albeit time-consuming advantage of meaning I can play this fun back of throwbacks every night. Say what you want about dwelling on the past, but for me it’s no wonder nostalgic Gen-Zers are jumping on the journalling train. I can categorically say my five-year-diary is the best £10 I’ve spent in, well, five years.
Journalling is an important reminder that the most significant days of our lives are often the unpredictable ones: when you wake up expecting another dreary Tuesday — then something extraordinary happens
Entertainment value is obviously high up on my pros list whenever I try to recruit a friend to my diary-writing club. Sending stories of Nights We’d Forgotten About (the one where George loses a tooth; the one where Aimee leaves her aubergine on the Central Line...) brings endless joy to my now 30-something set of friends, half of them bored at home breastfeeding or battling I’m-Quitting-My-Job! quarter life crises. Perspective, too, is another useful pro. Nothing puts your troubles into greater focus than knowing you felt similar levels of existentialism 12 months ago over a boy whose name you now need your diary to remember.
There are other note-worthy details you pick up on when diary-writing, too. The slow shifting of friendship dynamics. The gradual wisdom that comes with approaching 30. The themes that come up ever year, like being just-a-little-bit-ill for most of February and just-a-little-bit-rosé-eyed for most of June.
Charting it all has been a fascinating lesson in embracing the rollercoaster that is growing up — and a reminder of something Nicholls conveys so wonderfully on the page: that the most significant days of our lives aren’t always the birthdays or the weddings or the clichéd moments we think they’re going to be. It’s the unpredictable ones: the rainy Tuesdays, when you wake up expecting another dreary plod to the office and then something extraordinary happens that makes you go wow or guess-what or maybe even cry: that run-in with an old flame; that WhatsApp that changes everything; that night away with your oldest friends that descends into aching belly laughter.
It turns out most of us don’t need expensive therapy, half the time. We just need a pen and a couple of minutes each evening to reflect on that work dilemma we lost so many nights’ sleep over 12 months ago; how we needed it to get us to the next juncture we’re at now. Maybe I’ll think myself silly for writing this column in 12 months’ time. Maybe I’ll need a dash of its optimism. And that’s the beauty of it. It’s an empty page right now, one there’s no point trying to fill until it comes round because life is unpredictable, life is messy — and sure as hell is a lot of fun to read back on 365 days later.
