You’ve seen it in every detective show – the tragic discovery of a young girl’s diary. Whether it falls into enemy hands or becomes evidence in solving her murder, the message is clear: putting your deepest thoughts on paper is dangerous.
My mother proved that point when I was in elementary school.
I’d done what every young girl does – poured my heart out to my “dear diary,” sharing thoughts and feelings I didn’t dare say aloud. I hid it well (or so I thought), but Mom found it. And read it.
Unfortunately, most of my entries concerned her. Mom was furious with me for daring to even think anything negative about her. And I was wary enough, even then, to not write anything very damning. I think the worst was “She’s always mad at me. I don’t think she loves me anymore.”
The consequences were swift and harsh. Accused of being an ungrateful brat and grounded for a month, I learned my lesson. Never again would I commit thoughts to pen and paper. Instead, I turned to writing angst poetry. My favorite from middle school: “I don’t belong in this world that I’m in, I’m along for the ride.” Good stuff.
Then the digital world emerged, offering what seemed like the perfect solution – password-protected word docs. Finally, a truly private space! I poured everything into those documents: anger, bitterness, hate, and shame. Very little positive stuff made it in – I could talk to people about good things, but negative feelings felt dangerous and needed to be hidden away. Those word docs became my free therapy sessions, a place to spew every dark thought and painful memory.
It was a classic example of “you get what you pay for.” What I didn’t realize was that writing all that stuff was keeping the anger alive. Every time I reread entries from past years (which I did often), those feelings came rushing back just as strong as ever. Each reading reignited the hurt and anger with everything and everyone.
Then came the catastrophe – I forgot the password to my very long document. I was nearly hysterical. All my work, my memories, my life – gone. I was so upset I didn’t write anything for a few months (easy to do with three babies/toddlers running around).
Then one day, I sat down and opened a new word doc. Something had shifted. Instead of diving into darkness, I found myself writing about the baby eating beets, the new dog protecting the toddler, my friends. When I was done, I felt… joyful.
This accidental reset taught me something profound about journaling. While it’s cathartic to write down anger, fears, and sadness – to really FEEL those emotions, to rage, cry, and hit pillows against walls – holding onto these written records can keep us trapped in those feelings.
Instead, try this: Write it all out. Feel it all fully. Then, when you’re cried out, burn those pages. Release them to the Divine, asking her to heal you and everyone involved. Put it in her hands. Then let go.
Your journal can be so much more than a vault for pain. Let it be a sacred space to record your dreams, lessons, joys, and excitement. Let it be proof of your growth, your resilience, and your capacity for love. Because what we focus on grows – and wouldn’t you rather grow more joy?
