🎈The Hot Air Balloon Diaries: A 12-Year-Old’s Guide to Surviving Emotional Turbulence
At the ripe old age of 12, I didn’t know much about human psychology—Freud who?—but I did know when someone was being a jerk. I had a finely tuned radar for bad behavior and an even sharper sense of how it made me feel: somewhere between “mildly annoyed” and “existentially betrayed.” So, like any emotionally overwhelmed preteen with a flair for drama and a coil-ring notebook, I started journaling.
Why journaling? Maybe I thought writing down my feelings would magically suck the sadness out of my soul like emotional leeches. Or maybe I just watched too many movies where girls with feathered pens and tragic eyes poured their hearts into floral diaries. Either way, I grabbed my 80-page notebook—complete with hot air balloons on the cover, because nothing says “emotional depth” like whimsical aviation—and got to work.
Inside, I created a very scientific inventory of the people in my life: who they were, how they treated me, and what kind of emotional bruises they left behind. I even added some spicy commentary on their character, as only a 12-year-old with a thesaurus and a grudge could. There were also doodles. Lots of doodles. Because even emotional audits need flair.
I remember sitting under the gazebo on our acreage, golden leaves drifting down like nature’s confetti while I scribbled furiously about the injustices of my life. My youngest sister, a newly literate shadow who followed me like a loyal puppy with boundary issues, kept peeking over my shoulder and sounding out my deepest thoughts like she was decoding ancient scrolls. At the time, I thought it was cute. Spoiler alert: it was not.
Our house was loud with laughter, but unfortunately, it was the kind of laughter that came at someone’s expense. My dad, a man who believed sarcasm was a love language, had a few go-to zingers like, “You wouldn’t be bad looking if it wasn’t for your face.” Charming, right? As an adult, I can chuckle at those now. But back then, they hit like a dodgeball to the soul.
I was a sensitive kid—basically a people-pleasing emotional sponge with a clipboard. I couldn’t understand why people didn’t just… be nice. My home life was a confusing cocktail of cozy and chaotic: my mom’s nurturing instincts clashed with my dad’s unpredictable behavior like a sitcom with no laugh track. So I learned to play mom, referee, and emotional support animal all in one.
And that journal? Oh, I hid it like it was the nuclear codes. I knew if it ever got out, I’d be toast. Unfortunately, toast I became. One day, someone found it—no one ever confessed—and shared it with the entire family. They read it. Out loud. Together. Like it was storytime at the library, except the story was my soul and the audience was howling with laughter. Except, of course, when their own name came up. Then it was suddenly not so funny.
I was mortified. Betrayed. And more determined than ever to figure out why people act the way they do. That day was a turning point. I kept journaling throughout my life, though I eventually developed a habit of destroying my journals like they were cursed relics—just in case history decided to repeat itself.
As a kid, I thought maybe it was all my fault. Maybe if I were just better, nicer, more perfect, people would stop hurting me. So I became the overachiever of emotional survival: dishes done, sisters cared for, chaos managed. I didn’t choose perfectionism—it chose me. Like a weird superpower born from dysfunction.
And that, dear reader, is how a hot air balloon notebook launched a lifelong quest to understand the human condition—with a side of sarcasm and a whole lot of heart.
The Truth By Tracy 
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