After my mom died, I found an old journal we’d shared when I was sixteen. It was buried beneath the clutter of my childhood bedroom, which I cleaned out after she died. I noticed that I'd been the last to write, never passed it back, and the journal had eventually been forgotten about and shoved beneath my bed. It felt like yet another thing I could guilt myself over, which was something I did a lot in those early days. But through that fog I had an idea…