40
Share on bsky
View this post on Instagram
I have a stack of journals four feet tall.
Some are barely breathed in. Beautiful, perfect journals that I found in lovely stores, and purchased because the dream of journaling was calling out to me.
Surely, with this new, beautiful journal I will become a real journaler. I will journal every day in it, fill it perfectly, and become a real journaler.
After a few months and some effort, it would feel not “right,” and that beautiful journal would be set off to the side, collecting equal parts dust and guilt. Then, again, another journal in another store, and I’d pick it up and double down, promising to myself, “This time, this time—it’s going to work.” (If you are feeling personally called out by this paragraph, well, I’m not gonna tell you to keep reading, but you probably need to keep reading—ha!)
I admit to: 12 barely started, partially filled-out, diary-vibes journals that I am loathe to open. The Sarah writing in those hasn’t found her journal voice. Hasn’t figured out how to be real or get into the flow. She is worried about sounding dumb. She is afraid someone might read them. The partially-filled journals whisper to me in a push-pull of desire and failure, and I can’t bring myself to put them out on a shelf, nor can I bring myself to tuck them in the back of a closet.
The filled ones are margin-to-margin—to the bleeding edge. Those journals are akin to a sharpie line across a timeline, recording the moment I hit my stride and figured it out. They are a record of every moment I sat down and chose to be vulnerable. Where I said to myself, “I am here; I am allowed this time just for me.” Where I allowed my wild, messy brain to tumble forth onto the page. Where I allowed myself just to be myself. Where—I showed up for myself. Those journals demand that I stand and say, “I am good at showing up for myself,” and let that truth settle into my soul like it’s always been there.
Showing up for myself has been a journey that leaves me presently in a land of extremes (it’s lifelong work at this point). I was taught from an early age to prioritize everyone else, to self-abandon. So early that I can’t remember anything different. On one hand, I spent five weeks this summer with a foot pain of 7/10 on the pain scale before I realized I should see someone about it (and let’s be real, someone had to suggest it). Yet, on the other hand, I am unyielding in some ways about showing up for myself; journaling makes a great example because I will take my moment in the morning to journal, knowing—and deciding—to be late for work.
The blank page of a journal demands you be present. Without presence, it’s just a rote habit. Without getting real, it’s just a hollow activity to fill time. It becomes magic when you breathe yourself into it.
We live in a world that worships the optimized, filtered, hustling, best version of ourselves. That self never misses a calendar reminder, meal preps, drinks lemon water, and always has the right fit. That person makes lists (that they complete) and tracks everything. But that person isn’t a journaler. Your best self shows up for your feed, your partner, your family, your friends, and for every “should” you come across. That best self shows up for everyone else first.
You know who journals are for? Your favorite self.
There’s no way you can anchor outside of yourself with your favorite self. Have you ever considered your favorite self? Can you discern the difference between your best self and your favorite self? If I asked you to describe your favorite self, could you? Can you feel your favorite self? See them? For me, my favorite self is the one who shows up barefoot, open-hearted, deeply flawed, radiant, hilarious, and loud (like, probably too loud). Your favorite self shows up for you first.
(Ready?) You—yes, you—have permission to let your journal be your journal, to explore, to try, to not listen to anything anyone says about how to journal. Or try it all, try everything! The lesson here is to find what works and feels good for you. Once you can be real with yourself, you can at least get pen to paper without it feeling strained.
Put your midnight heartbreak next to your grocery list. Let grief lie down next to a funny story. Let dreams sit next to arguments. Allow yourself to be without judgment. The only person judging you in your journal is you—and that’s gotta go.
Getting “into the groove” of journaling is flow. Flow allows you to fill page after page in your journal with ease. Flow is not just a journaling thing; you can get into flow at work, at home, with a hobby, with anything—flow is feeling “in the zone.” It’s being seamlessly present in the moment, completely engaged and immersed in what’s before you. Sometimes time speeds up; sometimes it slows down. It’s meditation in action. Flow is a muscle; once you know how to find it, you can work it and grow it. The ability to tune out a world addicted to noise and distraction and deeply work on what’s before you is a powerhouse of a skill.
Journaling is not expensive; all it requires is paper and a pen. It’s an extremely accessible tool for your toolkit (and you don’t need to use every tool in your toolkit every day, but for me, it’s a daily!). The expensive part is the years (hopefully fewer) you spend finding flow in it. The years spent between dreaming of being a journaler and being a journaler. That’s how flow becomes a real powerhouse. It is the special sauce between the people experiencing profound growth and joy in journaling, and those shrugging their shoulders over it. If you are dreaming of journaling, this is the gap—it’s not a brand-new, beautiful journal, or muscling through the early stages of habit formation—it’s finding your flow.
Once you have a muscle for flow you can apply it anywhere in your life. The ability to get present, focus on what’s important, and tune everything else out? It’s a powerhouse of a skill for making dreams a reality, living with presence, and sucking every drop of marrow out of this life (Thoreau).
Anaïs Nin said, “We write to taste life twice,” and I’ll keep saying it: twice feels like a really low number. I write to taste life until I understand it. Until I feel better. Until the emotions unravel and show their underbelly to me. Until the thoughts stop clanking around in my head like something is wrong with my car, and I swear everyone can hear the clanking too. So, if you’re thinking my journals are full of brilliance, creativity, and profoundly amazing thoughts, you’d be wrong. Sure, sure, I’ll give myself some of that, but lately—it’s been a lot of stressing out about my schedule, meandering thoughts, and trying to learn what rest really is.
Journaling has a host of benefits—mental clarity, emotional regulation, stress reduction, problem solving—the list is endless. I’d argue that every facet of your life can be improved by taking a moment to (essentially) discuss it with yourself objectively first. To access all these benefits, you must be able to flow into your journal and let your journal flow back into you. It’s how you end up whispering to yourself, “Wow,” as you flip back through the completed pages on your messy, imperfect, sacred journal you wouldn’t trade for any new beauty holding the promise of “perfection.”
It’s like having a favorite pen. If you are a person with a favorite pen, when someone asks you to borrow a pen, you will first attempt to give them a random, bottom-of-your-bag pen. If, absent another pen, you will hand over your favorite pen (because you’re a good person), but you will hover, chase down, and 100 percent get that pen back (because you’re a person with a favorite pen). Your favorite pen is not the best pen in the world; it’s special because it’s your favorite pen.
Make yourself—and your life—just as special as your favorite pen.
~
This account does not have permission to comment on Elephant Journal.
Contact support with questions.