The Day I Stopped Journaling
A beloved ritual, a traumatic event, and the process of relearning
There’s a clear, plastic storage bin of more than 20 journals sitting in my closet. Most of them have words on every page; others are only half full. And some contain a mix of writing alongside cartoons or stick figures scrawled in crayon.
This collection of journals dates back to the days when I first learned how to write, up through my late teens. By the time I was old enough to string together complete sentences, I began to record my thoughts, experiences, and ideas on paper. My journals chronicle pretty much my entire life from elementary school through college.
There’s so many in the box because I long had a habit of keeping several journals going at the same time.
One near my nightstand to write before bed.
A big one with unlined pages so I could illustrate or experiment with fonts.
A tiny one that I could carry around in my pocket and jot down ideas when I was out and about.
And sometimes an extra one just for the heck of it.
Journaling was how I learned to express myself from a young age. I often think about how that regular writing practice became an unintentional gateway into my current career. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a writer — an identity that feels inseparable from the rest of me, and one I came to realize through journaling.
For most of my life, I was diligent about journaling every day. Before bed was normally when I’d sit down with a pen and paper, scrawling down as many details from the day that I could remember.
This ritual kept me anchored.
When young Jenn was experiencing something stressful or difficult, her journal gave her a way to process situations in a way that she couldn’t do in conversation. She created a peaceful, non-judgmental space for herself on those pages where she could express herself and work through her problems.
There was a time in my young life where I promised myself I’d always write down my experiences, no matter how uncomfortable or unpleasant they were. In a way, it felt like a sacred duty to chronicle my own history. Young Jenn wanted to experience all the ups and downs of life and live to tell the tale — an desire that seemed a lot simpler when I was still just a kid living in the suburbs.
To be fair, I was pretty successful at capturing both good and bad moments when I was growing up. In my journals, there are stories and poems about everything from friendships to breakups to family vacations. I tackled big, existential questions that centered around things like religion and philosophy. I wrote about my distressing experiences with anxiety as a teenager in excruciating detail, and chronicled my fears (and excitements) about becoming an adult.
And when I went away to college, my journaling habit came with me. All the way up until the end of my junior year.
It was spring 2018, and I was studying in Germany for a semester. It was also the semester when my dad died unexpectedly while I was still half a world away.
When I got the news that he was in the hospital, I was completely caught off guard (to say the least). There was about a 24 hour period between when my mom texted me that he was about to go into surgery for a heart aneurysm, and when I found out that he never woke up.
And during that waiting period, being alone and afraid in another country, I began to journal furiously.
I wrote down every scrap of news from my mom, every thought, every physical sensation that I was experiencing. Remember, I had pledged to myself a long time ago that I’d be open to experiencing and recording all the ups and downs of life, even when things got tough.
Writing an official record was my duty. And writing would also be the balm to my most painful wounds.
But in the aftermath of my dad’s death, no words I wrote could soothe my broken heart. The usual emotional release that came from jotting down my thoughts was dulled by the numbness that settled in once he was gone.
There were some days where I wrote anyway, forcing myself to bear witness to my experiences even when I could barely feel anything. Yet, there were many occasions where I opened up to a blank page and did not know what to say. So, I just didn’t write anything.
The practice of journaling began to feel stressful and frustrating. I couldn’t take comfort in it anymore, knowing that my words were functionally worthless. Why would I write about an experience that I desperately wanted to forget? What was the point of chronicling all this pain if it didn’t soothe me?
I couldn’t bring back my dead dad with words. My musings could not fill the gaping hole he left in my life, nor could they help me chart a path forward. Journaling felt like putting a single band aid on my chest after open-heart surgery.
For the rest of 2018 into 2019, I kept a journal just in case, but rarely wrote in it. I think I made myself write a reflection on my birthday, as I try to every year, and probably one on graduation day in spring 2019. But beyond that, I didn’t turn to my journal to process life or document my experiences. For a long time, I just wanted to survive each day without having a mental breakdown.
I kinda hoped that I’d get back into journaling again one day. But so far, that hasn’t happened yet. The last entry I logged was on my birthday in November of 2022, so it’s almost been a full year since I chronicled my daily experiences.
Between 2020-2022, I logged just 30 entries. I thought all the time I spent isolated and indoors during the pandemic would maaaaybe cause me to pick up the pen again, but it rarely did. And then I hoped that moving to a new place in 2021 would inspire me to record my new experiences, but that didn’t do it, either.
I think I’m just coming to accept that my journaling practice probably won’t ever look like it did when I was younger. Sure, I could probably get back into it if I was super diligent about carving out the time to write every day. But it just doesn’t seem worth it to force myself to do something that I don’t even enjoy anymore.
Instead, I’m finding it more fulfilling to record my experiences in other ways — like in this newsletter, for example. So far I’ve succeeded in sitting down and writing an essay about my life every week since June! I consider that quite the accomplishment for this ex-journaler.
Part of the reason why it works for me is that the public diary aspect of a newsletter helps hold me accountable. I’ve been writing articles for other people to read for years now, so churning out these essays feels like an automatic process to me at this point. Also, deadlines help.
But of course, there are things I don’t want to share here. Honestly, I’m still figuring out how to bring journaling back into my life for those moments.
In recent weeks, I’ve tried jotting down my thoughts on paper when I’m having a frustrating day or working through a personal problem. I’ve found I kind of have to trick my brain into thinking I’m not actually journaling in order for it to feel pleasant. So I just tell myself that I’m recording my progress instead of writing a journal entry.
I keep those entries as short as possible, and don’t write more than I need to. When I start to feel bored or at a loss for words, I put the pen down. Short sprints are more productive than forcing myself to sit for long periods of time, painstakingly recording every little detail of what’s happening.
Brains are weird. I feel like I’m teaching myself how to walk again after a serious injury.
But then again, that’s kind of what trauma does, right? You become injured in ways you can’t explain. And healing can be so slow that it often feels like it isn’t happening at all.
I keep having to remind myself that it takes baby steps to form a new habit, even if it’s one I’m relearning. And it’s alright if those habits look different now compared to the past. After all, things have changed dramatically, and I’m allowed to change, too.