As a teenager, I didn't read a ton of teen fiction, and now I

Hear the words of Jesse Andrews, who reflected with candor: “As a teenager, I didn’t read a ton of teen fiction, and now I feel like I wish that I had.” Though spoken softly, these words reveal a truth familiar to many: that the choices of youth, whether through neglect or ignorance, echo into adulthood with longing. For in this regret lies recognition—not of failure, but of the treasures missed along the way. To wish he had read those stories is to recognize the power they might have held: comfort in confusion, mirrors for self-understanding, and companions for a restless heart.

The origin of this confession is simple: Andrews, who would himself go on to write for young people, realized that the stories he once overlooked were not trivial, but vital. Teen fiction, though often dismissed, carries the weight of adolescence: first loves, first betrayals, the shaping of identity, the ache of self-discovery. To ignore them is to forgo a map of the very years one is living through. His regret is not shame—it is wisdom, an acknowledgment that those stories could have spoken to his younger self in ways he only later came to understand.

So it is with all lives: only in looking back do we see the guides we missed. Consider the tale of St. Augustine, who in his youth pursued pleasure and distraction, ignoring the wisdom of the sacred texts. It was only later, in reflection, that he lamented, “Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient, ever new.” His regret was not simply that he had sinned, but that he had wasted the chance to be shaped by wisdom earlier. Like Andrews, he saw that what he had neglected in youth could have guided him more deeply through the storms of becoming.

There is also something profoundly human in Andrews’ words: the awareness that stories are not mere diversions, but lifelines. In adolescence, when identity wavers and emotions overwhelm, fiction offers clarity. The young reader finds not only entertainment but recognition, the blessed realization that their struggles are not unique. To miss this is to walk more alone than one must. Andrews, in wishing he had read more, speaks for all who later realize that art was waiting to guide them, if only they had reached for it.

Yet his confession is not a lament to drown in, but a lesson for the living. For the present always offers what the past missed. He cannot return to his teenage years, but he can honor them by writing for the young now, giving them the stories he once lacked. And for us, his words serve as a reminder: never dismiss the voices that speak to you in your own season. If you are young, cherish the stories written for your age. If you are older, do not scorn what once passed you by; you may yet return to it and find wisdom anew.

The lesson for all is this: do not neglect the nourishment of the soul that comes through art, through books, through stories meant for you in your time of life. Each stage of existence has its own literature, its own mirrors, its own teachers. To reject them is to journey without a map. Seek them, embrace them, and let them shape you. And if you have missed them, do not despair; for the beauty of stories is that they wait patiently, ready to speak, no matter how late you come to them.

Thus, let Jesse Andrews’ words echo as a teaching: do not ignore the stories meant for you, for they carry the wisdom of your own season of life. To miss them is to miss yourself. But to embrace them is to walk with companions, to see your reflection in their pages, and to carry their strength into your future. And if regret lingers, transform it into action: create, share, and guide others to the voices you once overlooked. For in this way, even missed paths can become roads for others.