On Journaling, Sort Of
It's the end of August so I'm searching for the bread crumbs back to myself.
Sometimes, I fear that I’ve forgotten how to keep things to myself.
Both in person and on social media, I can’t help but lay it all out for people to see; I’m eager to share, over-explain and show it all. In a way it does the opposite of making me feel vulnerable, instead, it makes me feel safe. I love placing a looking glass onto my life and giving people a chance to take a peek through and see what I see. This may vary based on my mood and social battery, but I’ve never been that good at concealing my favorite things in the name of mystery.
I think it’s because I see my sharing as a form of communication with everyone around me (or whoever cares), rather than me just throwing things at people. Even when I don’t get a direct response, I feel as though there is one out there — unheard, unrung. I love this about myself, but sometimes I find myself worrying whether I’m mysterious enough. Should I be putting more effort into hiding what inspires me — holding it close like a precious gem until the time is right? What should I be keeping to myself as a opposed to giving to the world?
And yet, I still feel like with how much I share, I’m only showing a small fraction. One that is often over embelished and curated — which I have no shame about! I remember this when I look through my many journal entries — digital or physical — throughout my life. There’s a whole notebook collection worth of secrets never shared, and even at times, forgetten by myself.
When I was in first grade, I had a Barbie diary that had a lock and key — the inside pages were pastel-colored and smelled of peony perfume. It’s one of the few journals from my past that I can’t seem to find. But it’s the first one I remember writing in, jotting down my early memories, fears and hopes.
Keeping a diary has long been associated with privacy and mystery — hence the lock and key being a popular addition to many diaries you find in your local stationary store. Because it is a safe, in a way — a locked-up space where you can share your deepest secrets, the hidden side of yourself, your most private thoughts or more likely — the mundane moments of every day life.
I think privacy is becoming more an more sacred these days. With the rise of TikTok’s off-the-cuff posting format and the populairty of looking casual, effortless and “unhinged,” people have started to question: Should this have been left for the group chat? Should this have just been expressed in the journal? Maybe they should just get a diary? I do think it’s fair to say that a good part of our journaling should be done in private for this very reason. It gives us a chance to release our unfiltered thoughts, give them a chance to breathe, marinate and settle. Being in a constant state of sharing can start to feel paradoxically stifling and hollow, when you don’t have things that are just kept for you only.
Journaling is also something celebrated as an all-in-one way to fix yourself: your career, your mental health, your creativity. You hear this from career coaches, social media gurus, successful authors and thearpists: getting your feelings out on the page is healthy, necessary even. I know the benefits well. In the same way I feel my body and bones reset after a much-awaited yoga session, a 15-minute journaling session can do the same for my scattered, overstimulated brain.
But I’ll be very honest: in the last 6 months or so, I haven’t journaled nearly enough. Maybe the truth is that I’ve always found the pure form of diary keeping a bit tiring and a little boring — especially when I had to remind myself to do it every morning. Sometimes I feel like my arm cramps up too much when I journal “the right way” — with pen and paper — which makes me feel an intruder pretending to be a writer. I know this isn’t the popular thing to say, because I do feel better after doing it. But at the same time, I don’t think it’s ever become a habit. At least, I don’t think.
We often think of journaling as a Moleskine journal with fresh lined paper and a ballpoint pen. As a writer and someone who still prefers flipping the page of a book rather than listening to an audio book, I relate to the unmistakable sensation of writing on the page.
But I’ve also jotted down my life in different ways. I’ve started reframing the act of journaling in a more abstract way for myself to keep up with my scattered thoughts and inconsistent habits. So while I haven’t jotted down much in a physical journal as often as I’d liked, I do have copious notes app entries, emails to myself, Google docs, voice recordings and sticky notes from the last 6 months, etc.
Because regardless of my own lack of self-discipline to have a “proper” journaling routine, one thing I do know is that if I don’t let it out in some way, I will explode.
So maybe the lines have become a bit blurred. And maybe I like it that way. Maybe it feels more in tune with how I archive my life around me; through monthly playlists, random screenshots, a text thread from a friend.
The other day, I was at coffee with a friend, who is an amazing visual artist. She asked me to look through her camera roll so that she could figure out photos to post on her Instagram. My friend has a way of chronicling the beautiful things she sees around her, while picking out items that others look over. And her iPhone album reflected this: photos of her arts and crafts projects, photoshoots with herself, close up photos of textured fabric, screenshots of Facebook Marketplace finds. etc.
As I was scrolling, I almost wanted to tell her; post it all! There was a beauty in the digital tapestry of images she created; one that was created without even trying. They spoke to an oral history of recent moments in her life, but also reflections. Whether she kept it to herself or not is up to her, but to me, it felt like I was in a way, reading her diary.
I wish I knew this back in college when I was trying to be a bullet journal girlie, but I don’t think there is a “right way” to journal. I think as long as you feel a release, a weight off your shoulders, it counts. I guess I view journaling in the same way I view mediatation — I think we have too many rules around both. Because in truth, you don’t have to get a fresh notebook or sit cross legged in silence; can just allow life to sweep you up and get lost in it. This opinion I have is actually borrowed by the amazing poet, Mary Oliver;
There’s a reason you often see journaling go hand in hand with meditation — they both fall in the same line of advice that mindfulness can help us feel more ourselves.
Because that’s what these photos, fragments and voice notes give me: hope. A hope that I can come back. That I can return, reunite with a feeling. And if I don’t want to reunite, the chronicling behind me shows me all that I’ve done so far. As long as it reminds you how abundant life is — that there will be more lattes, more cherries on the porch, more smiles with friends. And if anything, it allows me take inspiration from myself — instead of one of the many imaginary versions of people i see on my feed every day.
And what is journaling if not a gift of time travel? When i feel myself slip into a depressive episode, the scariest thing isn’t the lack of motivation or the fatigue but it’s the fact that I don’t recognize myself, and not in a good way. Slowly, the road map back to myself gets more and more fuzzy.
I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were. — Joan Didion
Maybe the point of this essay is to remind myself and others, to not beat ourselves up over forgetting to journal. I’d like to believe that there are journal entries between the scraps and loose jewelry in our bags, the seams of our sweaters or the way we choose to organize a bookshelf. Every day we leave something behind. Every day we make an entry, in a way. But all we need to do is take notice of it and lean in.
Thinking about all this during the month of August is very apropos — as I think the 8th month of the year is often about shuffling through the archives of the past year. Just like in January we focus too much on what’s in front of us, in August we focus on looking back with impatience and unease, instead of with abundance and joy.
“This is all I’ve done.”
”This is all I’ve done!”
During August, I always find myself drenched in nostalgia and looking back at memories of my past self that don’t feel like me anymore. It’s a scary feeling; looking at the evidence you’ve left behind of who you were, who you thought you were. That’s what’s so sobering about journaling and chronicling your life (in whatever way you choose); you see the changes, right there, excavated on the page, on your feed, in your clothes.
How odd is it that we can mourn who we once were. Not just who we were 5 years ago but even who we were just six months ago. Can a person change that much? Can we become unrecognizable after just half a year?
I hope so. Because the proof is there.
I often have the shush the part of me that berates the falling habit of journaling regularly or linearly in the same journal or at all. I’ve apologized to every journal I’ve kept over and over like my lost lover I wronged. There’s a lot of pressure to “do things right” and “do like they do” and it’s all a load of shit, even as we shame ourselves here and there for not conforming. I do have this habit of writing the date and time when I journal. I’ve done this in whichever journal is current, in my journal just for tarot readings, in my notes app, in Notion. I’ve questioned why I do this, and the only answer I have is to capture as much as I can. To time travel, like you said. I don’t make a diary of what my day was like. I write out my yearning, my aches, my anger at God, and all of my prayers and wishes I beg and gracious ask for. To journal is to document, to capture, to bottle something of our personal humanity. Thank you for the reflection, friend ♥️ I’ve been a lazy lover of your thoughts and posts, but your words always reach me out here on this digital landscape.