By Labour Day of most years growing up, I couldn't wait to go back to school. Not because I wanted to see my friends or had become tired of the ones I had at home, but because I craved a fresh start.

I couldn't wait for new pencils and notebooks that made me believe I had somehow improved myself over the span of two months. I longed to feel the crispness of a new Gap turtleneck tucked into my bootcut jeans. I wanted the blank slate that accompanied a new teacher and freshly-cleaned classroom, believing both could be the foundation of what I'd already begun to consider "my year." (Finally!)

Never mind that my school bestie wasn't in my class or that the teacher I was assigned to was likely to brag about his relationship with the grade one teacher down the hall. A new year guaranteed a new me — or at least a new backpack.

Back-to-school magic creates an unbreakable spell. Every summer by mid-August, I'd declare this year to be the one that delivers the heart-pounding drama of The O.C. (school dances are crucial) or a true life calling à la Sabrina Spellman and Buffy Summers (because I know I secretly have it in me to conjure brilliant spells or eradicate vampires). September meant I'd have another opportunity to present myself as the (metaphorical) new kid like Brenda Walsh on 90210, arriving as the most fabulous version of Anne T. Donahue to find myself beloved and celebrated by my school's ruling class.

This year, I go back to university (part-time — let's not go nuts) to continue chipping away at a history degree I'd abandoned years ago for the world of writing. And despite being a 37-year-old woman who knows no number of pens will morph me into Rory Gilmore or Felicity Porter, I'm still counting down to the first day of class as if this latest set of papers and projects will transport me from Cambridge, Ontario to Stars Hollow.

I've bought a new planner, and organizational stickers for that planner, and Post-Its in pastels. I'm stocked up on pens, highlighters, and Hilroy notebooks because that's what happens when you find yourself on a Staples-induced bender on a 40-degree August afternoon. This year, I tell myself, I'm a student again — one of the world, and one trying very hard to earn that goddamn BA. I bought new sweaters for this.

The thing is, like all love affairs, the one I have with back-to-school now has shifted a bit. As a tween who binged on Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Student Bodies, and Dawson's Creek, my illusion of a picture-perfect year has been contaminated with reality. My favourite TV shows had long told me that high school is the most important life phase; as far as I was concerned, I only had a small window to ascend to greatness. But a couple of decades later, I now realize that simply isn't true.

In real life, afternoons aren't broken up with wacky mishaps as the result of a mispointed magic finger, nor can any institution afford two rival school papers (let alone one). A 15-year-old sleeping with his teacher, like Pacey and Ms. Jacobs in Dawson's Creek, would be less fodder for a romantic storyline and more evidence to support a serious felony charge. Not to mention the dialogue: unlike Jennifer Linley or Paris Geller, I can gather my thoughts on the fly only if peppered with curse words and clichés. In high school, I thought I sounded elite because I shortened "buzzkill" to "BK."

Fundamentally, I know I can't rebrand myself as a perfectly-imperfect academic who manages to make Dean's List, pull off sweater vests, and entertain a love triangle while also drinking enough water. I know the group dynamics I grew up longing for thanks to my favourite TV shows aren't sustainable when you're a tired adult with a family to take care of. I know the school paper — as someone who wrote for it 14 years ago — is a wonderful outlet, but not the be-all-and-end-all of everything (apologies to Andrea Zuckerman and the West Beverly Blaze).

The September I used to believe in swooped in to rescue me from moments of profound uncoolness. The "new year, new you!" mantra assured me that if I tried hard enough, I'd somehow erase the years where I'd felt lonely or misunderstood, and I'd find myself transported into a TV show where Pacey Witter liked me because I was so weird. I clung to the notion that I could stop being a person and become a star; that with only the purchase of a small shoulder bag, I would be mistaken for Cambridge, Ontario's own Marissa Cooper. Sure, my teen idols and crushes were all famous 20-somethings who were paid phenomenal sums to spew overly complex dialogue — but they were still there, every week, making middle and high school seem incredible.

My own back-to-school journey has been a bust for years. By the end of high school, and for eight million reasons, I no longer reveled in autumnal mythos and attended class next-to-never. I failed twelfth grade and squeaked out enough passes to graduate the following year, but I didn't even attend my own grad ceremony. I dropped out of college. I dropped out of university (twice). And yet in my working years, I still believed that, with the introduction of long-sleeve knits and new shoes, I could lasso the feeling I had as an awkward teen — like so much was still possible because so much hadn't yet been proven impossible. I needed that promise that things could turn around because I felt unable to turn them around myself.

I would love it so much if I could say that I had a gorgeous, TV theme soundtracked-revelation that all I ever needed was to be myself. But instead, it was merely the passage of time. And while that might sound tedious, it's been a privilege. Over the past million Septembers, I've been given chances to make mistakes, to fail, to fail harder and more horribly, and then to crawl back. It took years to get to a point where I felt ready to learn because I wanted to learn. (And then it took even more because school isn't free, and so many other things in life end up coming first.)

This isn't to say I don't sleep atop a pile of school supplies while listening to the albums I ordered from Columbia House, hoping I would finally be cool. (I was not!) The spell of nostalgia still has its hooks in me, and I will never deny myself a chance to feel joy at the memory of memorizing Bonnie Rait's "Something To Talk About" so I could lip-sync it with my next door neighbour in front of our fifth grade class. But the back-to-school spell has changed as much as I have.

I love the promise of a new start and a new me. But this September, I'm heading back to class aware that I can start fresh at any point, and that I will always be new and ever-changing. Which is how I justify thrifting so many sweaters.