Why I Stopped “Hustling” Journaling and Started Letting It Heal Me

I used to think journaling was just another box to tick on my “productive human” checklist. You know the vibe—those perfectly curated spreads on Instagram with calligraphy headers, color-coded stickers, and paragraphs that read like a self-help book draft. I bought the fancy leather-bound notebook (the one with the gold foil edge, obviously) and vowed to write in it every single night. Spoiler: It lasted 4 days.

My first entries were forced, bordering on ridiculous. “Today I drank 8 glasses of water. Ate a salad for lunch. Got 3 tasks done.” I’d stare at the blank page for 10 minutes, wracking my brain for something “worth writing about,” then close the notebook feeling defeated. Like, if my day wasn’t “notable” enough to fill a page, what was the point?

It wasn’t until a particularly chaotic month—work deadlines piling up, a fight with my best friend, and that lingering anxiety that makes you lie awake at 2 a.m. replaying every tiny mistake—that I picked up that notebook again. This time, I didn’t care about neatness or “productivity.” I just wrote. Messy, run-on sentences. Half-formed thoughts. A lot of “I feel so overwhelmed I don’t even know where to start.”

I wrote about how my friend’s text still stung, even though I knew we’d work it out. About how the deadline pressure made my hands shake when I opened my laptop. About the small win I’d brushed off that day—finally fixing the leaky faucet in my bathroom—that felt huge in the middle of the chaos. I didn’t edit. I didn’t worry if it made sense. I just let the words pour out, and by the time I closed the notebook, my chest felt lighter. Like I’d taken a backpack full of rocks and set it down.

That’s when I realized: Journaling isn’t about being perfect. It’s not about having interesting days or profound insights. It’s about showing up for yourself—exactly as you are, on exactly the kind of day you’re having. Some days, my entries are 3 lines long: “Woke up tired. Drank too much coffee. Watched a bad movie and felt better.” Other days, I fill pages about grief or joy or that weird existential question that pops up when you’re folding laundry.

I no longer write every night. Sometimes I go a week without touching the notebook. But when I do pick it up, it’s never a chore. It’s a conversation with the part of me that’s too busy to speak during the day—the part that’s scared, or happy, or just plain tired. I’ve stopped using fancy pens (a cheap ballpoint works just fine) and I’ve embraced the scribbles, the crossed-out sentences, the way my handwriting gets messier when I’m emotional.

A few weeks ago, I flipped back through the pages and found that first cringey entry about drinking water and eating salad. Next to it was the entry from that chaotic month—messy, raw, real. And in between? Hundreds of little moments that I would have forgotten if I hadn’t written them down: the way the sunset looked pink over the rooftops last Tuesday, the laugh my neighbor’s kid let out when they chased a butterfly, the relief I felt when I finally finished that big project.

If you’ve tried journaling and quit because it felt like a burden, I get it. I’ve been there. But maybe give it another shot—this time, without the rules. Grab any notebook (or even a random piece of paper). Write one sentence. Write a list. Doodle a little if you want. Don’t worry about being “good” at it. Just worry about being honest.

Journaling isn’t about creating a masterpiece. It’s about creating a space for yourself—one where you don’t have to perform, or explain, or be anything other than you. And honestly? That’s the most valuable thing I’ve ever given myself.

(P.S. This post is a submission from a fan who wanted to share their journey with journaling. We hope their words resonate with you as much as they did with us.)