The most important thing I can say about journaling is this: if writing about yourself feels difficult, then don’t write to yourself—write for the version of you who still needs saving.
Write for your future children or to the kid you once were. For the stranger who might one day stumble on your words. Write like you're scratching instructions on a cave wall for how to build fire—because that’s what you’re doing: passing down survival techniques for the human soul.
When I first started journaling at 15, I couldn’t access a single honest feeling. My entries were shallow, vague. I didn’t know myself well enough to tell the truth. But over time, I discovered a trick: don’t write “I’m depressed.” Write how to escape depression. Don’t write “I’m lonely.” Write a guide for the lonely. Teach yourself out loud. Make it a conversation with your higher self.
If you feel embarrassed to write about your life, good. That means you’re close to the truth. The shame only stings because you’re brushing up against something real. I felt that for years. Writing in the first person triggered waves of subtle, undefinable anxiety. But when I shifted the voice—when I started writing as if I were the teacher, not the subject—the shame disappeared. I could say anything. Suddenly, I had access to every memory, every mistake, every win.
Now, writing is my meditation. It’s how I breathe. It’s my music, my daily ritual, my therapy session with the gods. I don’t journal because it’s cute or trendy—I do it because it saves me from becoming the worst version of myself.
When I write, I slow down. I become more aware of what I’m thinking, how I’m feeling, and why I might be contributing to the very conflict I want to escape. Writing helps me catch my own bullshit. It gives me a mirror. It turns raw emotion into structured thought—and structure brings peace.
It took decades to get here. And I’m still not a master. But I’m closer than I was. And that’s what matters. That’s why I keep going. If I stopped writing, I’d drift. I’d fill the time with distractions. I’d avoid the work of becoming who I’m capable of being. Journaling isn’t just about reflection. It’s about spiritual momentum.
People avoid writing for the same reason they avoid meditation or honesty: it’s uncomfortable. The skeptical voice in your head says, This won’t do anything. That’s your anxiety talking. That’s fear dressed as logic. Your mind is trying to save you from discomfort—but it’s also keeping you from growth.
The mind avoids pain the way fire avoids water. But your higher self? That version of you that appears when you’re calm, relaxed, and at peace—that part of you doesn’t avoid truth. It wants truth. It craves peace. It’s just buried beneath all the noise, fear, and past programming.
Writing is how I excavate that part of myself. It’s how I quiet the nonsense and get close to something real. And that’s the point—not perfection, not productivity, not even healing. Just realness. Just the raw material of the soul, written down so it doesn’t rot inside you.
So write. Every day. In your own voice. For someone you love. For the version of you that didn’t make it. For the stranger who still might.
Because if you don’t... who will?