I have a crystal clear memory of where I was when Girls first aired. Picture it: Dublin, April 2012. I was studying abroad and sharing a cute little apartment with three other American girls. America’s Next Top Model was, for some inexplicable reason, always playing on some channel, and the soothing hum of Tyra Banks making girls cry became our near-constant background noise. 

I loved being in a foreign city, and I loved feeling like I was on the precipice of finally becoming who I would be. I was also consumed by self-doubt and anxiety. Was I cool enough? Smart enough? Would I do great things? 

Now, hypothetically, let’s say there were very popular—very illegal—websites where you could watch TV shows and movies, and, hypothetically, right after Girls aired in America, my roommates and I eagerly crowded around a laptop and watched as four young women like us claimed Brooklyn as their own. 

At the time, I didn’t have the words to describe how watching Girls made me feel. I said I thought the show was pretentious and stupid, and, come on, Lena Dunham wasn’t hot enough to be naked on TV, right? 

For years, I hated Lena Dunham. I didn’t read her first book, Not That Kind of Girl, when it came out. I agreed with all the think-pieces and Jezebel articles about how problematic she was. Like so many of my peers, I didn’t want her to change or grow or continue to speak for us. I wanted her to go away. How dare she be so smug, successful, and self-possessed when I was such a mess!

So will you believe me when I say that I loved her new memoir Famesick, and that reading it made me realize I may never have hated Lena Dunham as much as I hated what she reflected back at me?