Why I Journal

By Sharon Ewing

I believe the reason some writers have dismissed the value of journaling is due to its definition.  Webster defines journaling as “an account of day-to-day events”.  Notating mundane everyday acts isn’t going to interest anyone except the writer, with rare exceptions.

That definition pretty much describes the first journal I kept as a preteen. Growing up in a family of six, sandwiched between and sharing a bedroom with two sisters close in age, there was little privacy, but my precious pink diary had a lock and key.  My journaling experience had begun.

Writing after that consisted of school assignments. Then parenthood arrived, along with a teaching career replete with papers to grade and endless lesson plans.  Free time didn’t involve paper and a pencil.  All that changed one day at dinner as I listened to my kids teasing one another about an earlier childhood incident that I had forgotten.  I thought about how my siblings and I enjoy reminiscing whenever we get together, laughter filling the air as we share the events that keep us connected. I dug out a spare spiral notebook, and set out with a new resolve.

Soon a business opportunity initiated a family move South. Myriad changes that accompany new jobs and an unfamiliar location along with adolescent angst provided new fodder for daily entries, along with a new reason.  I poured emotions onto page after lined page.  Both writing and rereading the entries eased some of the turmoil impacting these years together. 

Journaling proved to be an even more valuable outlet when I couldn’t voice the agony of watching my dad sink into Alzheimer’s and when my husband suffered a heart attack miles away from home. It became my best friend in a place where I was a stranger.  Through the births of my grandchildren and the deaths of several more family members, including that of my daughter, I filled lined pages with questions and ramblings, emptying myself each night before crawling into bed hoping to sleep.   More recently, in our first covid year I began a morning journal with statistics attempting to find sense in all of it. It helped. 

Today my stack of journals, all shapes and sizes, are tucked away on a shelf in my closet, my memories, heartaches, questions, prayers, and ramblings, the pieces of my life.  I don’t know how or why, a cheap spiral bound book replete with ramblings of the soul can bring some peace of mind.  I do know that it doesn’t matter if I ever use them to create a memoir, a story or two, or even if I ever read through them again.  Their greater purpose, to complete me.