Though I consider myself someone who enjoys the process of writing, journaling never really seemed like an enjoyable thing to me.
Over the course of my life, I have attempted many times to keep a journal. However, I always found myself treating the process like a chore rather than a medium for my self expression and end up abandoning the endeavor after only a handful of entries. I resigned myself to thinking that it was just not my “thing” and that I didn’t need to keep a record of my thoughts because I won’t forget the important memories anyways.
Recently, I’ve had a change of heart. I just celebrated my 21st birthday, and as fun as that is, it’s also just another reminder that time really is flying by. Somedays I still feel like the overly-optimistic 17-year-old starting her first year of college I once was. But that was four years ago, and my memories of those days only get fuzzier and fuzzier. While I was right to assume that I would be able to recall certain important memories in vivid detail, the thing is that I only really remember a few in the grand scheme of things.
Looking back, I’ve noticed that I remember the feelings I associate with certain events or entire years of my life more than I do the actual memories themselves. And while I know that kind of how memories work, I’ve found that I wish I could remember really why I felt sad or happy or even what I was doing when I wasn’t feeling anything super strongly at all. I’m really just trying to point out the obvious that when we get older our older memories start to fade, and I’m starting to care more about the ones that I know will one day be on the chopping block.
I’m currently in the process of reading Lena Dunham’s memoir “Famesick,” which is fantastic by the way, and early on in the book she delves into her relationship with her mother. While discussing growing up with some of her insecurities, she talks about one of the defining moments that made her feel more seen and comfortable in who she was was when she stumbled upon some of her mother’s old diaries. In them was revealed a person who shared a lot of the same aspirations, insecurities, and general zest for life as herself.
She wrote, “These pages–hundreds of them–became a kind of call-and-response, a conversation I was having with the version of her that once pulsated with need, not only the need to create work but to create a life worth living, just like I was trying to do now.” When I read this passage, I was struck with a sort of “aha” moment.
I’ve likely reached the time in my life where keeping a journal is probably one of the most important things I do. I’m an adult now, fast approaching the post-grad life, so things are likely about to get a little chaotic and very very real. And while motherhood isn’t a life goal of mine, having a time capsule of who I am now, at this very moment, will probably be just as important to future me as it would be a child of mine. I’m not even the same person I was last year, so 20, 30 years down the line, being able to look back at who I was and what I was striving to achieve in vivid detail would be priceless.
If you think about it, keeping a journal is like being your own personal scribe, or historian. You’re creating the textbook for your life, what moments spurred you forward, what experiences set you back, and all the grey stuff in between that our memories can’t recall. Whether you’re writing it for yourself, or a future relative to stumble across, a journal just might be the most important project you take on. So yeah, maybe it’s time to start journaling.