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It was my 40th birthday and I was gifted with a beautiful leather-bound journal.
As I held it in my hands and gratitude filled my heart, I was already picturing where I’d place it on my bookshelf at home, next to the other blank journals that had been gifted to me over the years.
My love of language must have been apparent from a young age because books and journals have been the gifts of choice for me for as long as I can remember. The notes from friends and family inside the front covers of those journals read, “Write your dreams into existence,” and “May this hold the first chapters of what’s to come.”
Heartfelt messages that I was not yet ready to hear.
I don’t know if we’re born with the love of language or if it’s learned. I attended Catholic school, so it didn’t matter because it wasn’t a choice. I didn’t mind though. I found joy in diagramming sentences, memorizing the parts of speech, finding the perfect adjective to describe the noun, and the reliability that words, unlike people, didn’t change the part they played. A direct object pronoun was always going to be a direct object pronoun. Wonderful.
My first therapy session was at 17 years old. It was more or less mandated by my pediatrician given my set of circumstances at the time. I’m sure I said some choice phrases to him that set me on that path, and thankfully so. In that session, the therapist suggested I journal my feelings and bring what I had written with me to my sessions.
If you know me, then you know I follow through, do my homework, and never show up unprepared—unless it involves writing.
A few weeks in, the therapist realized that journaling was not going to work for me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be in touch with my feelings. I even offered up art (shockingly). We settled on me reading books and reporting back to her my thoughts, how I identified with what I read, and how it could help me heal.
During a particularly rough “rough patch” in a prior relationship, I found myself waking up in the wee hours of the morning. I learned the only hope for me to fall back to sleep was to jot down a few bullet points of what was bothering me so I could think about it later. Eventually, that wasn’t enough and I found myself needing to write—dare I say “journal”—so I set up a computer and small desk in my meditation closet so I could write and then sit for my typical morning meditation session.
Most of this writing turned into emails to my then-partner, many of which were not read unless I printed them and asked to read them to him. It was the only way to get his focused attention on what was ailing my heart. Eventually, I stopped doing that, but continued to write as a way of feeling heard. In the same way I found dance again after so many years away from it, writing was another way to express the repressed.
When that relationship ended, I realized how much time I spent feeling confused. Confused about where I stood, why actions didn’t match words…the list goes on. I was even confused by our ending, although it was me who finally pulled the rip cord. Imagine that.
I believe the confusion stemmed from the times when I brought up what was bothering me and was told, “That’s just a story you’re telling yourself.” In a few cases, that was correct, but facts are facts and when they’re twisted so that someone can call you “crazy,” that’s something else. I later learned this was gaslighting.
I was worn down and I was anxious, but I was not crazy.
Months after that painful end, my neighbor recommended a book that helped tremendously. I listened and listened again to the author explain, in detail, the arc of what my own relationship had been and why I lived in a state of confusion. At one point, the author said a telltale sign of this type of relationship is when you feel the need to write long emails or texts as an attempt to explain yourself and be heard.
Memories of all those early morning writing sessions flooded back. I hadn’t read those writings in what felt like ages. And at a time when my life was completely upended and I was questioning if I made the right decision—if I was, in fact, crazy—I revisited those writings. I had basically written the author’s book for her, a case study of all she explained.
This was a gut punch, but also a turning point in my healing. I had no idea that one day I’d be reading my own writing as a means to heal my broken heart. They are not an easy read, but they confirm what I always knew to be true: I was of sound mind, even if my then-partner wanted me to believe otherwise.
In the months that followed, I used those writings as a way to ground myself in the harsh reality of what was and what I had allowed myself to endure all because of hope, which is a beautiful thing, but should never outweigh the respect one deserves in a relationship.
Sometimes, I think I was so resistant to journaling because writing (and language) was this pristine element outside of myself—something that was shiny, happy, creative, a way out—and I didn’t want to tarnish it with the darkness that was inside of me. But, at last, it beckoned me, like an archangel telling me he was strong enough for it all. “Give it to me, use me, tell your story. I’m language. It’s what I do.”
Yes, I appreciate language and using it correctly, but what I love is the gift that language is in and of itself. It’s the avenue for telling our stories.
I realize it’s a bold statement to say “writing saved me”—but it did. It confirmed my sanity and gave me an outlet for pain that had no place else to go. It picked me up off the floor in an empty house when all that was left was a mattress on the floor, a meditation candle, and my laptop. It has carried me through these last few years on many Sunday mornings, a time I carved out for myself to write, if I felt called to.
And my hope is that by sharing what I’ve written, it helps others heal too.
For some, it’s painting or drawing. Others may need to build something or go for a run, take beautiful pictures or cook a meal from scratch. In the end, it’s all creativity, and it transmutes our pain into something beautiful…if we let it.
One of my children asked me recently, “Why do you cry when you write?” My answer came quickly and out of nowhere:
“Because I’m writing from my soul and my soul speaks in tears as much as it does words. But mostly it’s because I know I’m writing my way to my own happy ending.”
And that’s not crazy talk.
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