“Dear Freshman-Year-Self,
Stop writing letters to yourself. Stop putting weight on the world by putting it in your journal. It’s enough. Jesus.”
When I started writing this letter, I noticed how cynical I had become about journaling. This reluctance stands in contrast to the fact that during high school and freshman year, journaling was one of my favorite pastimes.
I hoarded coffee sleeves, candy wrappers, and memories—all in the name of scrapbooking—and eventually started feeling that in order to be happy, I needed to write happiness down. I constantly recorded every aspect of my day, as though I could make good moments stick.
In an Eastern Religions class during my freshman year, I submitted an essay arguing that keeping a journal helps me to bring solidarity between the past and present. I detailed how my obsessive writing habits were rituals to be proud of and not compulsions to be avoided.
While I perceived my journal entries to be reflections of growth—nowadays, I find writing actually keeps me in the past. Although it can be therapeutic and sometimes insightful, constant records make the present moment timeless. Where emotions are fleeting, writing gives them permanent value—and this is not really a good thing.
I am now in my senior year of college and I struggle to reread old entries. They seem naive. I once talked about a crush before mentioning I’d had appendicitis, which feels absolutely absurd looking back on it now.
I recall times I spent fighting for poor friendships, for the sake of consistency and not for the sake of love. I remember how many cups of coffee I bought, in order to follow a routine. And in contrast, I realize that the names of people in my life who I love are written hundreds of times—but I don’t need a journal to remind me that they’re important.
Life is consistent all by itself. If I write an idea down today, it usually turns out I’ve written it before.
About three years ago, on July 26th, 2016, I wrote, “If you read the words you wrote down months, or weeks ago, you’ll find yourself changing. Activities, dates, pressing issues. And also … the way you dot your I’s. Your handwriting will change by the pen you use, and the time of day.”
Today, when trying to write this article, and going on tangent after tangent after tangent, I suggested that “an arbitrary date, a signature, or a dotted I—can capture the incredible randomness of everyday life.”
On July 26th, 2016, I also visited my grandma and said that I was worried it was too hot for her to walk around outside. I wrote, “I love Madarjoon. I sent her a letter and ordered her some Shutterfly photos, so hopefully, they’ll arrive soon.”
A few weeks ago, I happened to send my grandmother photos from Shutterfly, again.
On January 11th, 2016, I wrote, “I am currently in Alex’s room (the heater in mine is too strong). Why do I always try and set the stage in my entries by explaining my location? What difference do I think it will make? It must mean something … Wow, that’s such a typical ‘me line.’ I say ‘it must mean something’ to people and then do no work to elaborate the answer. I only give the impression I have some idea worked out. Lately, I feel like ‘duh’ is the only true response to all of my so-called depth.”
A few days ago, I expressed this same feeling that I never truly know what I’m talking about. I wrote, ”I often listen to the song, ‘Please, please, please let me get what I want this time,’ —and the wishes I’ve written down. They seem distant and ridiculous now.
It’s comforting that in the past, even when I’ve spoken with conviction as I did in my Eastern Religions class—I’ve been so, so wrong about the root of my actions. I’ve always taken each day so seriously and put so much pressure on myself.
“But if I was misguided freshman year, and the year before, it means I’m probably misguided now. And if I’m anything when I grow up, or when I graduate in May—I will still sound confident but have a long way to go. That’s such a relief.”
Lately, my motto has been, “don’t have a motto.” Don’t have a regular. Don’t have an expectation of how things should be. Compulsive behaviors have led me to follow routines just because they felt safe. But I want to be in the moment. I want events to be isolated. I don’t want the present to be built on Thursday and Wednesday.
When people ask me what I want to be when I grow up, I tell them I want to own a wine bar in Brooklyn, like the one that Cindy Guyer owns near my apartment, because “she always gives me an extra splash.” That’s going to be my answer until I decide to open a circus instead.
I’m free if I do that math and realize my worries today are like my worries in 9th grade translated. Anger has been redirected, characters have been renamed, insecurities have disappeared, and reappeared with a power-up—and there’s no need to write it down. It will all circle back in some form.
I have a lot of the needs—that I “please, please, please”— want to see fulfilled. But I need to realize I’m a silly, 21-year-old girl—and instead of feeling insulted by this realization, I need to relax. Sometimes I’m naïve, and that might not be as terrible as it sounds.
Although I’m inclined to rely on routines, I’ve slowly grown out of them. As of now, I’m battling between the two sides of myself, but I’m so glad that spontaneity is winning.
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