The first journal I ever owned looked like this. I was in third grade.
It had hearts on the cover and a warning written across the front telling everyone to stay out. Apparently, I took my privacy very seriously. I carried it everywhere. Sometimes I’d take it outside and sit beside a stream to write. I didn’t know it then, but I had already found one of the first places where my questions were welcome.
I still have that journal. In fact, I still have every journal I’ve ever written.
They’re tucked away, each one holding the thoughts of a younger version of me. Every so often, I pull one down and begin reading.
What surprises me most is how familiar she feels. She already sounded like me. Those journals tell the story of my life. They also tell the story of how the page taught me to listen.
Over the years, I’ve heard people say they wish they had kept their journals. Others have shared the sadness of having them lost, discarded, or taken away.
Every time I hear that, I feel quietly grateful. Somehow, I never let mine go. I couldn’t have explained why then. I only know that some part of me trusted I would one day need to meet that little girl again.
Every time I open one of those journals, I expect to meet a younger version of myself. Instead, I keep meeting the same soul.
Even as a child, I wrote to make sense of the world around me. Writing became the place where I discovered what I believed. Putting my thoughts on paper helped me separate what felt true from what had simply been handed to me.
There was always a quiet knowing inside me that kept asking,
Is there more?
Many of those questions became prayers. I laid them at the foot of the cross because they felt too heavy to carry alone. Looking back, I can see those pages slowly changed my relationship with myself. They helped me recognize the quiet voice that had been there all along.
The page slowed everything down.
It gave me somewhere to lay my thoughts before reacting to them. Questions that felt overwhelming in my mind often became clearer once they found their way onto paper. Understanding unfolded one honest sentence at a time.
Years later, I began passing journals back and forth with out Kaden and Jessa. We still do. At first, they gave us time to think, to feel, and to listen before responding. Over the years, they’ve become part of birthdays, graduations, and other meaningful moments. A place to honor one another, reflect on who we’re becoming, and say the things we never want left unsaid.
Sometimes I wonder if, years from now, one of my children will pull one of those journals off a shelf and hear my voice the way I still hear the little girl in mine.
I was passing on a way of listening.
When I open those journals now, I find myself wanting to wrap my arms around that little girl.
She carried so much curiosity. So many questions. And so much hope that someone was listening.
If my writing offers anything, I hope it’s a place where you don’t have to rush your questions.
A place where you can stay with them long enough to hear your own quiet knowing.
Long before I found answers, I found a place where my questions were welcome.
I’ve been returning there ever since.
I’d love to hear from you.
Did you keep a journal growing up? Or was there another place where you learned to hear yourself more clearly?
I’d love to read your story in the comments.
And if you’ve been following along, thank you for being here. Over the coming weeks, I’ll be sharing more behind the journey of my debut novel, The Map Maker, a story inspired by many of the same questions about self-trust, curiosity, and the quiet ways we find our way home.
I’m grateful you’re here for the journey.
I kept various journals in all stages of my life. Sadly I had to leave most of them in an attic in Thailand when we moved to China and I simply did not have enough space to pack them (plus they were heavy). I sometimes wonder if someone found them, very likely not English readers, or if they would even bother reading them.
Listening is a key. Do you hear that still small voice in the center of your mind? The one that always talks to you when the world says no. That's the one if we listen right that loves us back