Harriet is quite a girl

One way back to yourself is reconnecting with the things you loved as a child.

When I was 11 years old, Harriet the Spy was my bible. In retrospect it’s so obvious: A tomboy writer in NYC carries around her marbled composition book, taking notes on the world, and learning more about herself–and her relationships with friends when they read her words.

It’s wild to me that this book was published in 1964, a full decade before I was born. My yellowed, dog-eared copy of the book was this cover:

That hoodie, those jeans, the Chucks, the toolbelt–I identified, envied, and emulated all of it. The illustrations are key, drawn by the author herself.

I remember there were details of the setting that were foreign to child-me: Manhattan was a world away from Brooklyn, the people Harriet observed all seemed like much weirder adults that I’d ever met, Harriet’s family was much more well-off than mine, I didn’t know anyone who had a cook, a nanny, and such distant parents. All of that made it more magically weird for me.

Revisiting the book now, I still see myself in her. My girl Harriet pondered the big questions of work, love, and life, just like I am.

Harriet was born in Louise Fitzhugh’s mind before I was. It’s a reminder that your experience is both unique and utterly common at once.

Sometimes you see someone you recognize as a fuller expansion of who you are. When you do, lean in.