I recently had a conversation with my friend K about journaling. In seeing her journal, I was taken aback at how differently we journal despite having the exact same journal!
She uses her journal as a highly curated scrapbook. It’s a real-life Pinterest board that documents her life: complete with dainty stickers, playful cursive font, and physical memorabilia washi-taped onto the dotted pages.
My journal contents are quite different. She is my closest confidant and the pages of her are messily scribbled on with my most raw, unfiltered, and often illegible thoughts. There are imprints of tears, coffee stains, and smudged ink. Sometimes when I flip through it, pieces of sand fall out. I take my journal everywhere and write in it whenever I have the time and space and honestly sometimes when I don’t have the time and space. Spend a day with me, you might be surprised at the unassuming times I whip her out.
Take a glimpse at my journal, and you’ll never know that I used to strive to achieve perfection in every work of art I created. Growing up, I was the kind of child who would rip up her artwork if I messed up the smallest detail, no matter how almost complete the piece was.
When I think back to those days, I am shocked that the type-A perfectionist little girl grew up into who I am today — someone who happily…
