The Diary

I’ve always considered myself average. A little too average, honestly. Nine-to-five job? Check. Husband glued to his computer, immersed in World of Warcraft? Check. Three kids, each with their own lives that barely intersect with mine? Triple check. Add in four yapping little dogs and a stack of unfinished stories and poems in a dusty drawer, and that’s me, Becca Stevens: a walking, talking middle-of-the-road life. 

Until the diary showed up. 

It was just sitting there on my porch when I came back from the grocery store, wedged between a potted plant and the mat that says Welcome-ish. No box, no packaging. Just a leather-bound diary, the kind you see in movies about treasure hunts or time travelers. It felt old, the kind of old that smells like dusty libraries and forgotten stories. 

Flipping it open, I found a single sentence written in bold script on the first page: 

"In life, there are no limits. Write about everything." 

That’s it. No signature. No explanation. Just an invitation—or was it a challenge? 

The rest of the pages were filled with handwriting, neat and deliberate, with entries about… well, everything. Adventures that couldn’t possibly be real. A pirate ship that sailed through the clouds, its captain torn between her loyalty to her crew and her dream of finding a long-lost sibling. A girl who tamed dragons by singing to them, her songs hinting at a life of loneliness and loss. A recipe for what sounded suspiciously like unicorn stew, written with hilarious side notes about the impossibility of catching a unicorn. One story described a young woman who could step into paintings and live inside their worlds, each canvas offering her a different chance at a life she could never have in reality. Another was a heartbreaking tale of a man who traded his memories for the ability to fly, soaring through the skies but slowly losing his sense of who he was. 

Each story felt alive, as though the emotions of their characters leapt from the pages and wrapped themselves around me. The tales didn’t just entertain—they resonated, stirring feelings I hadn’t explored in years. Some entries mirrored struggles I had faced, while others awakened long-buried dreams. It was mesmerizing, like falling down a rabbit hole into a world where every emotion had a story to tell.  

Then, at the back, there were blank pages—as if the diary had been waiting for someone to fill them. 

I’ll admit, my first thought was that it had to be some elaborate prank. My husband, maybe? But Dave wouldn’t dream of it; he’d have to tear himself away from his guild raid first. My daughter? She was off at her training program for the Army Reserves. My youngest? Unlikely. He’d rather fight virtual battles than touch a real book. 

Still, curiosity got the better of me. That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I grabbed a pen and wrote: 

Today, I found a strange diary on my porch. It felt weirdly magical, but it’s probably just my imagination. I don’t even know why I’m writing this. 

The moment my pen left the page, the ink shimmered. No, seriously. It shimmered, like it was alive, then absorbed itself into the paper. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and checked the coffee I was drinking for suspicious additives. But the shimmer was gone, and the words were… just words. 

Weird. But not run screaming weird. Not yet, anyway. 

The next morning, I woke up to a different world. And by different, I mean utterly bizarre. 

My youngest son, James, was in the kitchen, eating pancakes. Normal, except he was eating them with chopsticks. “What’s with the sticks?” I asked. 

He shrugged. “I dunno. Felt like it. Works though, right?” 

That was odd, but not that odd. I let it go. 

Then, on my way to work, my neighbor stopped me. “Morning, Becca,” she said, holding up what looked like… a parrot? “Have you seen my dog? This bird’s been following me all morning, but I swear it looks like Bailey.” 

I stared at the bird. It squawked and… wagged its tail? My neighbor wasn’t crazy. That bird did look like her dog. 

I drove to work with a growing sense of unease. Something was off. Something had changed. And it wasn’t until I glanced down at my purse, where the diary now lived, that I felt the pieces start to click together. I’d written about the diary being magical. What if… it really was? 

That night, I tested my theory. Tentatively, I wrote: 

I wish I had a perfectly clean house, without having to lift a finger. 

When I woke up the next morning, the house was spotless. I mean, the good kind of spotless—like the house-flipping shows where everything gleams unnaturally. Even the dogs were suspiciously well-groomed. 

I sat down at the kitchen table, staring at the diary like it was a ticking bomb. 

Over the next week, I experimented cautiously. Small things, like asking for sunny weather (it worked) or wishing for a fresh bag of coffee beans (that showed up mysteriously on my counter). Every time I wrote, the words shimmered and disappeared. Every time, the diary delivered. 

But it wasn’t all sunshine and unicorn stew. For one thing, the writing inside—the entries that had already been there when I received it—started to feel eerily familiar. I found one story about a woman whose life was so boring, she wished for excitement. Her wish came true, but not in the way she expected. Another entry was about someone finding a strange diary. It was almost like… the book was telling my story. 

One entry, in particular, stopped me cold. It described a middle-aged woman who felt trapped in her routine, who dreamed of writing but never dared to believe her words mattered. She found a diary one day, filled its pages with her wishes, and slowly transformed her life. It was uncanny, almost like looking into a mirror. 

And then there was the question of who sent it. Why me? Why now? 

One night, after the family had gone to bed, I poured myself a glass of wine and flipped through the diary again. It was late, and the house was quiet except for the soft snoring of the dogs. On a whim, I wrote: 

Who sent you to me? 

For the first time, the diary responded. Words appeared on the page in shimmering ink: 

"You did." 

I dropped my pen. “What?” I whispered. 

The ink shimmered again, forming new words: 

"In another life, you found me and sent me back. You knew you’d need me." 

My heart raced. Another life? What did that even mean? 

What do I do with you now? I wrote, my hand trembling. 

"Write. Create. Live." 

From that moment, everything changed. I started writing with abandon, filling the blank pages with stories, poems, and wishes. I wrote about traveling the world, and suddenly, opportunities to visit places I’d only dreamed of started to appear. One of the first trips was to Paris, a city I’d only ever seen in movies. Standing under the Eiffel Tower at night, its lights shimmering like diamonds, I felt the world open up to me. I wandered through the Louvre, imagining myself stepping into the paintings like one of the characters from the diary. I even dared to try escargot at a small, candlelit restaurant—a decision I regretted but laughed about for days afterward. 

Later, I found myself exploring the rugged cliffs of Ireland, where the wind whipped through my hair and the green fields seemed to stretch into infinity. I wrote about how the landscape felt alive, as if the stories of the land were whispering in the air. On another trip, I walked the bustling streets of Tokyo, immersing myself in a world so vibrant and unfamiliar that I felt like a character in someone else’s novel. 

These experiences didn’t just change my surroundings—they changed me. I grew braver, more curious, and more willing to embrace the unknown. I wrote about being bold, and that courage led me to sign up for a local open mic night to read my poetry aloud. (That night, I tripped over the microphone cord and spilled my wine, but people clapped.) 

One entry was about spending a weekend alone in the woods, and before I knew it, I had rented a tiny cabin upstate. Those three days were transformative. For the first time in years, I had silence—real, uninterrupted silence. I hiked, journaled, and even tried meditating (I fell asleep, but it was worth a shot). When I came back, I felt lighter, clearer. 

Another entry was about learning something new. On a whim, I signed up for a pottery class. My first attempt looked like a misshapen pancake, but the instructor said I had “potential.” I laughed more in those two hours than I had in months. 

One evening, I decided to write about reconnecting with people. I started small, writing a wish for my oldest son, away at college, to visit soon. Two days later, he called, saying he had a free weekend and wanted to come home. It wasn’t magic pulling him back, not exactly, but it was the spark I needed to reach out more intentionally to those I loved. 

I began using the diary to shape moments rather than control them. I wrote about finding joy in small things—hot coffee, a quiet afternoon, a hug from James—and suddenly, I noticed those things more. I started making time for my family in ways I hadn’t before. I invited James to help me bake cookies, and we ended up laughing as we accidentally turned half the batch into misshapen blobs. I texted my daughter more often, asking about her training and sending silly memes that made her respond with, “Mom, stop,” but she always replied with a laughing emoji. 

With Dave, I suggested we step away from his gaming one night to play a board game together, and to my surprise, he agreed. It wasn’t perfect—he kept sneaking glances at his phone—but we laughed and talked more than we had in weeks. Slowly, I began to feel more connected to my family, not just as a mother or wife, but as someone who truly enjoyed being part of their lives. Life didn’t feel like it was passing me by anymore; it felt like I was finally living in it. 

Months passed, and I grew braver. I wrote about speaking at a community event about the power of creativity, and before long, I was standing in front of a small crowd, sharing how I’d rediscovered myself through writing. People clapped, and a few even came up to thank me afterward. One woman said, “You’ve inspired me to start journaling again.” It felt incredible. 

Inspired by the diary's stories, I decided to create my own fictional worlds. I wrote a short story about a woman who discovers she can communicate with birds, and to my surprise, the local library accepted it for their monthly literary magazine. Seeing my words in print for the first time gave me a thrill I couldn’t explain. I kept going, pouring my ideas onto the pages, and with each story, I grew more confident. 

One story idea nagged at me—a fantasy tale about a woman who finds a magical object that reshapes her destiny. It was a little too close to my own experience with the diary, but I couldn’t resist. The characters came to life in ways I hadn’t expected, and before long, I was drafting the outline for a novel. A novel. Me, writing a book. If you’d told me a year ago, I’d have laughed you out of the room. 

I also used the diary for personal growth. I wrote about conquering my fear of public speaking. Soon, I was volunteering to lead meetings at work, something that once filled me with dread. I wrote about improving my health and began jogging in the mornings. It wasn’t easy—I huffed and puffed like one of my dogs—but it felt good to push myself. 

One day, while jogging in the park, an older woman stopped me. "You’ve been at this every morning for weeks now," she said with a warm smile. "You look stronger every day. It’s inspiring to see." Her words caught me off guard, but they stayed with me, making the effort feel worthwhile. 

At home, James noticed too. "You’re really sticking with this jogging thing, huh?" he said, peeking over his game controller. "Kinda cool, Mom." 

I started to notice changes in myself, too. My legs felt stronger, my energy lasted longer, and the mirror reflected a version of me that stood a little taller. It wasn’t just physical—it was pride, blooming quietly in the spaces I’d once ignored. 

The diary pushed me further still. Inspired by one of its entries, I applied for a grant to start a community writing program. I didn’t expect to win, but somehow, I did. The program became a hub of energy and creativity. Retirees shared memories they had kept locked away, their eyes lighting up as they rediscovered the joy of storytelling. Kids flocked to the workshops, their imaginations running wild as they created tales about superheroes, animals, and magical kingdoms. One boy, shy at first, wrote a poem about his dog that left the whole group teary-eyed. 

A single mother attending the program told me, "This is the first time in years I’ve had something just for me. It’s made me feel alive again." Hearing stories like hers, seeing how a simple program could touch so many lives, was humbling and exhilarating all at once. It was more than a writing group; it was a space where people found connection and courage, and I was honored to be a part of it. 

One day, I flipped back to the older entries in the diary. A story I hadn’t noticed before caught my eye. It was about a woman who let fear stop her from doing the things she loved. She avoided risk, avoided messiness, and in doing so, missed the best parts of life. The story didn’t end with her conquering her fear; instead, it ended with her taking one small step into the unknown. 

I realized then that the diary wasn’t about granting wishes or fixing my life. It was about pushing me to act, to live fully, and to embrace the uncertainty of it all. 

One day, months later, as I flipped to the final blank page, I hesitated. I didn’t know what to write. I’d written so much, done so much, but now it felt like I was on the edge of something bigger. Something I couldn’t put into words. 

What happens when I fill the last page? I wrote. 

The diary shimmered one final time, and the ink appeared: 

"The rest is up to you." 

I stared at the page, the weight of those words settling over me. For the first time, I closed the diary without writing anything more. I didn’t need to. My life was no longer average or boring. It was mine—messy, unpredictable, and full of possibility. 

And whoever I’d been before the diary? She’d finally started living.