When I was in my early 20s, I struggled to pull myself out of the chaos of my younger life and push myself into a more responsible adulthood. I was not sure I was going to succeed; I still was haunted by past traumas and was pretty lost and lonely while trying to get to my feet.

I remember walking up Fillmore towards Haight one weekend afternoon. Out of a coffee shop, Boston’s More Than a Feeling was blasting.

This was unusual for the time. The concept of “ironic hipster” was decades away, and (from where I was at least) there was absolutely no embrace (ironic or not) of so-called classic rock from that icky arena-rock era. Most of us young, poor, white pseudopunks were still suffering the hangover from having to endure high school experiences soundtracked by Boston, ELO, Kansas, and the like. Blerg.

As I walked by the coffee shop, I remember distinctly being hit hard, hearing that sound, like it pulled the energy and well being right out of my soul. I’m sure, up till that moment, I hadn’t heard More Than a Feeling since it was on the charts, and so I was steamrolled by all the negative memories that the song and the era invoked.

I was bummed out all day. I feel so bad for that young Becky. Little did I know that memories get smoothed over and replaced by other memories; that I would hear More Than a Feeling hundreds of times hence, which would remove its power to hurt me. Annoy me, but not hurt me any longer.

Little did I know that the vividness of the bad teenage years would all but disappear, that my life would improve so quickly and profoundly that it would take my breath away.

Little did I know I would soften my militant stance that I had towards just about everything, that I would find the middle road, that I would feel sad when Boston’s lead singer killed himself.

Little, so little, did I know.