It's a curious feeling – to appreciate the chance to love and cherish Plath's writing while feeling so terribly bitter that I find it at all relatable.

I'm discovering through her journals that we took the same classes, maybe even studied in the same rooms and walked the same streets. I'm approaching the age Plath was when she died. I wonder how much in common we will have in the future.

I definitely haven't achieved anything even close to her accomplishments.