When I was at my lowest (ok, one of the many times I was at my lowest), I’d often feel like I was drowning in thoughts I couldn’t control. They looped endlessly in my head. Worries, regrets, harsh criticisms. No amount of distraction seemed to quiet them. It wasn’t until I picked up a pen and started putting those thoughts on paper that I realized something important: I didn’t have to carry them all inside me. Journaling became a way to let them out, to make space in my mind, and to begin seeing myself more clearly.
I didn’t actually believe that journaling would make much of a difference. Honestly, I only started it to appease my therapist. It felt cliché, like one of those “self-care hacks” you see on a listicle that promises to change your life or whatever. But once I started, I realized it wasn’t about creating profound insights or writing beautifully. It was about having a safe place to empty out the noise in my head. And that small act made a bigger difference than I expected.
I started journaling when my husband and I decided to take a break for a month. We’d been having issues for two years, and I was well familiar with how my thoughts and feelings on our relationship would pendulum back and forth between “I gotta get out” and “I could never want to leave”. But the month of separation was such an important step, and I knew I was going to live with feelings that might not stick with me once the month was over. I wanted a full recounting of this important time. I wanted to make sure that whatever thoughts and feelings I had, whatever decisions I made while alone … I wouldn’t forget them.
Because forgetting is one of the first things that happens to those of us stuck in the depressive loop. My primary doctor once told me “oh hey! You have depression, migraines, and ADHD! That’s the trifecta of memory loss!” Which. Yay, thanks? I mean, I guess it’s good to know (and for my doctor to know so that she can help me stay on top of it). But I didn’t want such an important time period of my life to be lost to the fuzziness that can become my brain.
And you know what? It helped. Really, actually, honestly helped.
Putting those words on paper meant that I could see my thoughts as they shifted and changed, instead of just living inside the pendulous emotional swing of them. It didn’t make the decisions any easier, but it made them clearer. It gave me the perspective to say, ‘This is what I felt on day five. This is what I felt on day twenty.’ And instead of rewriting the story in my head (or forgetting it entirely) I had proof of my own process.
And you know what? There’s something so so powerful about going back to a page and reading the words ‘I was actually really happy today – today was a good day.’
That’s the real power of journaling. It’s not about being profound or writing beautifully. It’s about remembering. It’s about creating a record of what you felt, thought, and chose at a time when your mind might otherwise blur it out. Depression convinces us that nothing changes, that we’ve always felt this way and always will. Journaling proves otherwise. It says, ‘Look. Here is who you were last week. Here is how you got through. Here is how you’ve grown, even if you can’t feel it right now.’
For me, those pages from the month of separation became a kind of anchor. I could go back to them when doubt crept in, when my memory tried to smooth over the rough edges or amplify the worst of it. They grounded me in reality rather than fear. They reminded me that even in the midst of pain and uncertainty, I was still capable of reflection, of clarity, of persistence. More than anything else, they prove to me that I CAN in fact overcome my biggest fear facing me as I stare divorce in the headlights – I can live alone and actually enjoy it. I know this because it happened, and I remember it because I’ve written it down.
Journaling doesn’t require anything fancy. You don’t need a special notebook or perfectly chosen words. It asks only for honesty. A pen and scrap of paper will do. The page doesn’t argue or judge. It waits, patient and silent, until you’re ready to say what you cannot tell anyone else. For many people, that is the first time they might feel truly heard.
I was honestly surprised at how writing things out also lead to me working problems out in my head. I was honestly surprised at how writing things out also led to me working problems out in my head. It wasn’t like I sat down and expected to solve anything. Especially at the beginning, I was just appeasing my therapist. But soon it grew into wanting to unload the mess that was circling endlessly in my brain. But something happens when you slow those thoughts down enough to put them into words. They take shape. They stop being this buzzing swarm and become something you can actually look at.
Sometimes, the act of writing showed me that the problem wasn’t as big as I thought. Other times, it showed me exactly why it felt so big. But either way, I ended up with more clarity than I had before. Journaling became less about “capturing feelings” and more about creating a kind of map of what I was feeling, what I feared, and what I wanted. And once I had that map, I could start to see paths forward that weren’t obvious when everything was stuck in my head.
One of the most powerful parts of keeping a journal is seeing patterns over time. When you’re in the middle of depression or grief, it’s hard to recognize that you’ve survived difficult days before. Looking back at past entries reminds you: there were times you thought you couldn’t go on, and yet you did. Those words become evidence that persistence is possible even when it feels out of reach.
Journaling can also be a place to practice honesty with yourself. Sometimes the act of writing something down, naming the feeling, describing the fear – it takes away part of its power. A vague, overwhelming sense of dread becomes something specific and concrete. Once it’s on the page, you can step back from it, even just a little. Instead of being lost inside the feeling, you can examine it. That shift alone can be healing.
It’s important to say that journaling doesn’t need to focus only on pain. It can also hold joy, curiosity, or the smallest sparks of gratitude. On heavy days, listing just one thing that brings you comfort can be enough. A favorite song, the smell of rain, a text from a friend. The darker the day, the more valuable those small noticings become. Your journal becomes proof that even in hard times, good things still exist alongside the pain.
Not to mention that if you DO have a good day, you can come back to read about it later. I gotta say, rereading the journal entries from good days is a powerful feeling. Just knowing that I’ve had a good day in the recent(ish) past is enough sometimes to lift me up.
Honestly, there is no single “right” way to keep a journal. Some people write every morning at the same time. Others spill words onto the page only when they feel overwhelmed. Some like structure: prompts, bullet points, neat lists. Others write in messy, unfiltered streams of thought. The form matters less than the fact that the page is yours. It belongs to no one else.
At its heart, journaling is an act of presence. It is showing up to witness your own life, even the parts you’d rather skip over. Some entries might feel meaningless at the time. Some might feel unbearable. But over months and years, those pages become a record of survival. They remind you of where you’ve been and how far you’ve come.
Persistence doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like a single sentence scrawled in a notebook on a night when you thought you couldn’t bear another hour. Journaling holds those sentences. It remembers them when you can’t. And when you look back, it will tell you a story you may not believe otherwise: that you kept going.
Persisting - The Book 