The journal that couldn’t hold my feelings

I thought writing was helping me heal. Sometimes, it was helping me avoid feeling altogether

I remember quarrelling with my mom that day about which was more important: tucking in the carton lid of a cereal box or the plastic bag inside it. As funny as it sounds now, I was fuming. I retreated to my room and decided to write pages about how bossy my mom was and how much I hated being told what to do.

That’s how my journey towards writing began. It began with anger, with a journal.

You might have had a similar experience in your teenage years. At that stage of life, even the smallest misunderstanding can make us feel victimised, misunderstood, or unheard. Add teenage hormones to the mix, and you’ve got a good reason to start a venting journal.

With time, the journal becomes your best friend. The haven that takes in all of your thoughts, no matter how absurd, and the sanctuary that absorbs the heat of your emotions without judgment.

This can go on for years. One notebook after the other, pages upon pages. The journal size might change, the colours, the tools, but the method remains the same: a place to vent, to analyse, to rationalise, to comfort.

Different notebooks. Same ache.

But what if our journals are keeping us in our heads? What if we’re trying to understand our thinking while hiding away from feeling?

Most journaling practices keep us in a loop.

In many ways, they hold us in place. The seasons, the reasons may change, but the practice stays the same.

My experience with journaling kept me in rumination until I changed the way I wrote. One day, I noticed the same feelings coming up, despite having gone through them over and over in my journal.

I realised I could describe my feelings perfectly while still never fully feeling them.

What was missing was allowing the feeling to take over me. To move from my head to my heart and let the feeling pass.

Things started to change when I started answering questions like: 

What feeling am I running from right now? 

How does it feel in my body? 

Can I allow the discomfort to stay a little longer before I rationalise it?

Today, I look back at that angry girl with a warm smile. It took a lot of work and self-reflection to get to this point. Now I have so much love and gratitude for her.

Although my journaling path started with anger, it has since transformed into a peace-keeping ritual. Accounts of how my mom didn’t understand me, how my father didn’t care, and how different I was transformed into expressions of gratitude and love for each member of my family, including their quirks.

I still write. Just differently now.

My writing became a place to feel instead of explain.

My love for writing and my little, carefully chosen journals needed tiny changes to truly transform how I feel.

If you’ve experienced something similar, I’d genuinely love to hear your story.