This week, we are starting our “Flow” Arc, focused on emotional expression. We’re easing into it today as we talk about one of my favorite (but lost) practices – journaling.

When I was a teenager, I was that girl—the one who religiously kept a journal and narrated her days in vivid, breathless detail. I wrote it all down: who I saw at lunch, what my teacher said that stung, the words to the 80s song that perfectly matched my feelings for my crush. You get it. Those notebooks were my first nervous-system regulator, a place where my feelings had somewhere to go.

And then, a shift. Every so often I’d reread an old entry and cringe—at my certainty, my swirl of feelings, the way I handled (or didn’t handle) what life sent. Somewhere along the way, I decided I didn’t need a written record of all that anymore. Grown-up me prized efficiency and “moving on.”

These days I still pick up a journal when I’m working through something structured—usually a self-help practice or a reflection guide—but rarely to chronicle a day, name an emotion, or metabolize an experience. If I’m honest, something feels missing. There’s a quiet pressure that builds without a simple ritual for letting feelings and thoughts move—and under the guise of being an adult, I let my journal fall away.

So this week I’m asking: what if I channel my inner teenage girl—the one who trusted the page—and pick up the pen again?

What the Research Says (and What it Doesn’t)

Decades of studies on “expressive writing” (brief, structured writing about thoughts and feelings) offer a nuanced picture. A meta-analysis by Baikie and Wilhelm (2018) found small but meaningful average benefits across physical and psychological health—things like fewer medical visits, small improvements in well-being and functioning, and gains that show up weeks or months later. On the other hand, an earlier meta-analysis by Frattaroli (2006) reported very modest effects or no effects in some contexts and populations; results vary by what you write about, how often, and who you are. (In other words, journaling isn’t a magic wand.) Still, according to Ferrer and Cohen (2018), the overall arc is encouraging: writing to make meaning can help us regulate emotion, clarify values, and feel a little less alone with it all.

Gratitude practices—one simple style of journaling—also have experimental support. In a metanalysis published in 2018, people who kept gratitude lists showed increased positive emotion and life satisfaction (with caveats about frequency and fit). Two takeaways I hold close:

• Small effects can matter at human scale. A few percentage points of relief repeated over weeks can accumulate.
• Fit beats force. The prompt, timing, and form should meet your life—not the other way around.

Handwriting vs. Typing: Does the Medium Matter?

Short answer: sometimes, yes. Writing by hand recruits fine motor, sensory, and language systems in ways that can deepen encoding and memory. A study by Mueller and Oppenheimer found that taking notes longhand can lead to better conceptual understanding than verbatim typing—likely because handwriting slows us down just enough to process rather than transcribe. Replications show a more mixed pattern, but the basic principle—deeper processing through intentional constraints—holds up.

On the neuroscience side, recent study by Van der Weel and Van der Meer using high-density EEG work shows that handwriting triggers broader, more complex connectivity patterns than typing—especially in frequencies linked to attention and memory formation. That doesn’t mean keyboards are “bad”; it does suggest that pen-to-paper can be uniquely regulating and integrating when the goal is reflection.

I think of it this way: journaling is not just cognitive; it’s kinesthetic. The friction of paper, the shape of letters, the micro-pauses as you form words—your body participates in making meaning.

What About Voice Notes?

Journaling doesn’t always have to mean pen on paper. For many of us—especially those who think quickly, process verbally, or get tangled when trying to slow down our thoughts—voice notes can become a powerful form of journaling. Recording yourself talk, whether it’s a message to someone you love or a note to yourself, can capture raw emotion, clarity, and insight in real time. Unlike writing, which can feel like it demands polish, speaking into your phone or a recorder makes space for messy, unfiltered reflection. Some people keep a private folder of voice memos as their “audio journal”; others send voice messages to friends or partners as a way of both connecting and processing. Either way, it counts as journaling—it’s simply a different doorway into noticing and naming what’s inside.

If Your Last Journal Entry Was a Decade Ago (or last Tuesday)

You don’t need to write a memoir every night. You don’t even need a full page. What you need is a doorway that’s easy to walk through, consistently.

Here are gentle, structure-light ways back in:

1. One line, three words.
   At the top of the page: Body, Heart, Mind. Then one word or phrase for each (e.g., “Body: tight shoulders. Heart: grateful/sad. Mind: scattered but hopeful.”)
2. Name • Need • Next.
   Name what’s here (“anxious about the meeting”), Need (“reassurance / a plan / a breath”), Next one tiny step (“email agenda bullets by 4 p.m.”).
3. Rose / Thorn / Seed.
   One thing that bloomed, one thing that stung, one seed you’ll plant tomorrow.
4. Three breaths & a sentence.
   Breathe in for 4, out for 6, three times. Then finish one sentence: “Today I’m proud that…” or “I’m carrying…” or “I choose to….”
5. Thank you, because…
   A five-item gratitude list can feel rote. Try one thing you’re genuinely grateful for, followed by “because…,” to surface why it matters.
6. Moment sketch.
   Capture a single scene from the day in five sensory lines. No backstory, just this moment.
7. Boundaries in ink.
   If you’re practicing boundaries, write one sentence: “To protect my peace, I will…” (tomorrow’s micro-act). Then close the journal and live it.
8. Timer, not target.
   Set 4 minutes. Stop when it dings, even if you’re mid-sentence. Ending on an unfinished thought makes tomorrow’s entry easier to begin.

If rereading old journals makes you cringe, give yourself permission not to reread. The power is in the movement through the page, not the archive.

My Starter Kit (low-friction, high-care)

• A notebook. A cheap spiral notebook will do, or splurge with a pretty journal that inspires you.
• A pen I actually like.
• A place (kitchen table, corner chair, front seat before walking in).
• A cue (pour coffee → jot one line; park the car → two lines).
• A soft boundary (no phone until I write one sentence).

And because I know myself, I’ll make it social only if that serves me: a check-in with a trusted friend each Friday (“one thing my journal taught me this week”), no screenshots, no “shoulds”.

If You Prefer Typing

Some days, typing is the barrier-remover. When you type, mimic the benefits of slowness and focus: write in a distraction-free app, use a full-screen mode, and set a single prompt. If you can, finish by handwriting one sentence that you want to carry into tomorrow—the kinesthetic “seal.” (Think of it as telling your body, Got it. We can set this down now.)

When Journaling Feels Risky (privacy, shame, and safety)

If part of you resists journaling because it feels exposing, that’s wisdom talking. You can design for psychological safety:

• Choose your container. Keep a small notebook that lives in a drawer, a password-protected doc, or a notes app with a simple passcode. If privacy is a real concern, try single-page journaling—write, then tear the page out and place it in a sealed envelope (or shred it). The point is the movement, not the archive.
• Write in third person. “She is carrying so much today.” Creating a small distance can reduce shame and make tender truths sayable.
• Try the unsent letter. Address it to someone (including yourself), then decide later whether it deserves to be kept, revised, or released.
• Set a boundary for depth. Promise yourself you won’t excavate trauma without support. If a difficult memory surfaces, shift to regulation: name five things you see, place a hand on your heart, take three longer exhales than inhales, and close with a simple orienting line like, “Right now I’m safe enough.”
• Let the page be seasonal. You can journal daily for a month and then pause. Rhythm over rigor; consent over compulsion. The soul doesn’t always move on a schedule—give it room to arrive.

These small design choices protect tenderness so the practice can serve you, not scare you.

Join in by:

• Picking one journaling strategy described above to try out and see how it goes.
• Sharing how it felt—what worked, what you’d tweak next time.
• Downloading the Calm Calendar for gentle accountability and weekly prompts.

What I’m Loving This Week

Sound: The soft scratch of pen on paper—tiny proof that something inside is moving outside.
Practice: A 4-minute Name • Need • Next check-in after lunch. One line for each, close the journal, carry the one tiny next step.
Tool: A 5-minute sand timer. Flip, write until the last grain falls, stop—even mid-sentence. Tomorrow’s entry will be easier to begin.
Song: Songbird — Fleetwood Mac. Tender, piano-led balm; let it play while you write one line for someone you love, then one for yourself.

A Gentle Invitation

If journaling once felt like “too much,” try less. One line, most days. If rereading makes you wince, don’t reread. If the blank page feels like a cliff, start with a prompt. Your journal isn’t a courtroom; it’s a doorway. On the other side isn’t a more perfect you—it’s a more present you.

This week, I’m picking up the pen—not to impress future me, but to befriend today me. I’m inviting you to do the same.

Next week, things will get just a tad more spicy as we talking about dancing without judgement (I know – I’m already anxious writing about it!).

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