I actually love writing for teens best. I had such an awful time

When Meg Cabot declared, “I actually love writing for teens best. I had such an awful time in my own teen years - I love having the chance to relive them through my fiction,” she revealed a truth of profound beauty: that even our deepest wounds can be transformed into gifts for others. In her words lies the mystery of memory and healing. She does not hide her pain but redeems it, using the power of storytelling to revisit those troubled years and shape them into something meaningful, hopeful, and even joyous.

The origin of this wisdom lies in Cabot’s own youth. Like many, her teen years were marked by struggle—awkwardness, loneliness, and the difficult search for identity. Yet rather than allowing these experiences to remain scars, she turned them into wellsprings of creativity. Through her novels, especially those beloved by young readers, she gives voice to the fears and dreams of adolescence, offering guidance and comfort to those who may feel as lost as she once did. Thus, her art is not only a reflection of her past, but also an act of service to the next generation.

This act of transforming suffering into creation has ancient echoes. Consider the poet Virgil, who, in writing the Aeneid, wove his people’s grief over civil war into a tale of destiny and hope for Rome. Or recall Anne Frank, whose diary, though born of unspeakable hardship, became a lantern for the world. So too with Cabot: she takes the ashes of her difficult youth and breathes into them the fire of stories, turning pain into light for others. Such is the power of those who dare to revisit their struggles with courage and imagination.

Her love for writing for teens also reflects a profound empathy. Adolescence is a battlefield of the soul—where insecurities roar loud, where belonging is sought but rarely found, where every failure feels eternal. By writing to and for this age, Cabot offers readers not only entertainment but recognition: the relief of seeing one’s fears mirrored on the page, the joy of discovering that others too stumble and fall yet rise again. This is no small gift; for the isolated teenager, such stories can be lifelines.

The deeper meaning of her words is that fiction allows rebirth. While no one can rewrite their past, the imagination allows us to revisit it, reshaping its contours, offering comfort where once there was pain. For Cabot, fiction becomes a sacred tool of reliving and redeeming, a way to reclaim her lost years while giving others the hope she longed for. It is proof that memory, when embraced rather than hidden, can be transformed into wisdom.

The lesson for us is clear: our struggles need not define us as chains, but can be remade as bridges to others. If you have known hardship, do not bury it in silence. Use it—through art, through words, through kindness—to ease the burdens of those who come after. What was once your greatest sorrow may become your greatest gift to the world, if you dare to share it.

Practical counsel flows from this teaching: write, paint, speak, or share the truths of your life, especially the painful ones. For in doing so, you will find that your wounds begin to heal, and that others who walk the same road will draw strength from your honesty. Just as Cabot relives her teen years through fiction to bless her readers, so too can you transform your hardships into offerings of compassion.

Thus, let Meg Cabot’s words be remembered as a beacon: pain can be turned into story, and story into healing. Do not flee from your past, but embrace it, redeem it, and let it guide your hands to create something that will comfort those who follow. For in the cycle of memory and creation lies the eternal power of renewal—the alchemy by which suffering becomes wisdom, and hardship becomes hope.