Journaling has been a part of my life since 1988. It started when I watched Winona Ryder’s character Veronica Sawyer pour her soul out into the pages of her diary in the movie Heathers. Her passion inspired me to abandon any uneasiness I had about legibility or self-restraint. I would furiously scribble my angry teenage rants down on page after page. Thankfully none of my declarations were to take out all of my closest friends like Miss Sawyer. But, the healthy part of the practice stuck, and I’ve continued to write throughout my entire adult life.

After filling dozens of notebooks, last week I realized just how much the process has come to mean to me. I’ve used journaling as a way to document my time, my emotions, my frustrations, troubles, anger, confusion, hopes, and my dreams. My journals have been a space to work out my relationships with others, but they’ve really been where I process my relationship with myself. 

Writing is caring for myself. Caring enough to work it out. Caring enough to turn it over. Caring enough to let it go. So many people have shared with me ways in which they were healed by writing when something was weighing heavy on their heart. In a notebook, but also by putting something down on paper and burning it, or placing it in a box and closing the lid, or sending their thoughts in a letter. Such a simple act that offers so much reconciliation. Which is true for most of the things I do for myself—they settle me. Just simple acts that, when done over, and over, and over again, make a world of difference.

And FYI TeamConfessions—I’m taking some time off. I’ll be back in a few weeks.
Happy rest of the summer!