Joys of Journaling

I first started journaling consistently-ish when I was in my senior year of high school (12th grade).

The idea of having a diary and being consistent with it, and especially if my entries were aesthetic, seemed very appealing. But in actually trying my hand at it initially, it was quite intimidating. And frustrating. I still feel it now— this pressure. Confusion in what I want to write. What if I can’t convey everything I want to say, or what if I couldn’t fully explain what I did?

There was a lot of overthinking involved.

A decade later (I’m just realizing that this is how long it has been, and it feels crazy to think about), I am a very consistent journaler (I don’t think this is a real word, but I am going to treat it like one. It is a real word in my world. Or maybe people have already been claiming the validity of this and I just haven’t met them yet— that is most likely the case). I have several journals that I have filled out cover to cover, and they span over multiple years (10 or so as I have mentioned). I don’t even have all of them with me where I currently live, the handful from my college years are still at my parents’ house in Virginia, whereas I live in Texas). I don’t journal every single day, nor do I feel the need to. I journal consistently— sometimes I’ll journal many days of the month, other times I’ll go weeks without journaling.

I’m also learning to take up more space with my journal— I’m learning to take more space up with myself. My intention journey of self expression and creativity over the past few years have been revelatory about how self worth and creativity go hand in hand— the more I express myself, the more worthy I feel and consequently the more worthy I feel of taking up space. The more worthy I feel of my existence in my authentic being and being seen and heard, the more I create.

If you flip through my journals (which no, you do not have permission to do so), you will see that there is a whole bunch of writing, and not as many images or photos. This isn’t a bad thing— however, recently I decided I do want to add more visuals. And I want to take up more space in my journal with less when that feels more authentic to me; before, I would feel like I had to save space and paper by trying to fill each and every line with my words before moving onto the next. More recently I’ve given myself permission to double space when I feel like it, add giant bullet points with washable crayola markers and add stickers. I want to start adding Poloroid photos too— first, I’ve got to get myself a Poloroid camera (or find the two that I bought several years ago but never used and figure out how to get them to work).

I want to take up space with more facets of myself in my journals.

When I was in the initial phases of my journaling journey, I will admit that a lot of it was forced— performative even. At the same time, that performance was inevitable in me expressing myself more authentically. Authenticity as I’m learning, or at least integrity to it, doesn’t always happen perfectly— especially when you’ve been conditioned to perform all your life. Particularly when you’ve been taught that you have to perceive yourself through how others perceive you, letting the pursuit external validation and approval guide you takes precedence over you actually knowing yourself. That’s what I struggled with— perceiving myself for me over perceiving myself through the perceptions of others.

I would often look at the blank page, struggling to come up with things to write. I itched for things to feel and make meaning of. In hindsight, I was being drawn in by my soul. After listening to my parents’ desires of being someone who I was not, I was finally starting to listen to myself. That meant being in touch with my feelings and my own desires. I was still being greatly gatekept from myself, stunted from maturity that could only happen when I was given room to explore my own thoughts and values instead of being shamed out of them to conform to those of others. At that time of my late teens and early twenties, I was trying to grasp for pieces of myself that I had yet to know; in my late twenties currently, I am integrated with those pieces and continuing to discover newer parts of myself.

I still struggle with creating and expressing myself now, but not to the same extent that I did before. Now I am more familiar with flow— I no longer let the shadows of my parents and society and whatever other sources of shame hinder me from pursuing my soul, even if I have to take breaks and sit with and move with pain to do so. This flow is only made possible through the acceptance of myself— not only the “good” parts deemed acceptable and convenient by systems of oppression in society and their supporters, but also the parts that are messy, vulnerable, heavy, and not always happy-go-lucky. The parts that are honest about injustice against myself and others, even if they make certain people in my life look down on me for it. The parts that are imperfect and traumatized, the parts of myself that stand up for myself and accept myself and validate myself. The parts of me that trust myself and validate my worth— the parts of me that validate my worthiness of taking up space and existing as I am, not forced to morph into an external expectation of a caricature of who I “should” be or should have been.

It it through being honest with myself that I can trust myself. It is through loving myself that I can express myself freely— even if the only audience is myself in the privacy of my journals.

Before in my college years, I was, as I mentioned before, gatekept from myself. The main lens through which I pursued by creative passions was one of how I would look to others; how aesthetic and cool could I look? The real question was how aesthetic and cool could I be? But the most genuine question was what did I love, and why?

I needed to know what my values were, and how I could embody more of them. It wasn’t only about knowing them intellectually, but immersing myself in them with my body, too— having a holy trinity of my mind, body and soul.

I didn’t struggle to write and express myself back then because I wasn’t enough or because I lacked magic within me— I struggled because I didn’t know myself. I didn’t know myself because I was taught that I wasn’t allowed to know myself— on several occasions when I did attempt to know myself and it was known to my parents, I was made to feel like I was doing something wrong. I was taught that the embracing of my own identity was disrespectful because it went agains their blueprint.

I was taught that I was wrong— that my existence, my soul, was wrong. That is why for so long, I had been convinced that I couldn’t have been me— their blueprint must have been me— because they were good, and I was only good through them. As if they were gods of my life to source my worth and moral truth through— even though the idea of worshipping humans instead of God, God’s creation instead of God, would be abhorrent in my Muslim household.

As I’m going back reading this essay, I’m thinking about how I didn’t mean for this to be a revelation of my trauma. I wanted to write a simple, lighthearted blog post about the joys of journaling and how I have evolved my journaling as well as other creative practices from being forced, awkward and at times performative to being genuine and conscious sources of pleasure in alignment to my most authentic self and how the process has evolved with my own identity evolution. But I guess at the end of the day, my trauma— and my overcoming of it— isn’t so easily separable from this at all. My trauma has deeply shaped my journey as well as my identity; however, remembering myself through healing my trauma— where I sought out to reclaim my creativity and self expression and my own pleasure in me being me— has been one of the most undeniably important things in shaping who I am today and in me being the most content version of myself that I have ever been: someone who is the most aware and aligned with her values of humanity, connection and authenticity.

The more I discovered myself, the less performative my creativity and art and overall self expression became. The more easy it became to access myself— the more accessible I became to myself because the more the barriers between me and myself— me and my soul— evaporated.

And the more it continues to do so with the more I brave feeling the full spectrum of my feelings and acknowledging and getting intimate with the various different parts of myself.

Maybe it was never about “finding” myself after all—

Maybe it was always about journeying to remember myself through the vehicles of my pens and the portals they opened for me.

It was about exploring various roads and trails, getting confused on the paths and often having to go back and forth the same ways, until I got closer and closer to the soul source that has always been calling me back home.

Journaling has been a means of discovering and accepting myself. It’s been a practice of being intimate with my mind, body and soul before sharing it for others, the connection to myself setting a foundation for connecting to other people while simultaneously protecting me from being reduced to a mere object of consumption. The connectedness to myself makes genuine connection to others possible, and preserves the humanness and humanity of it all— I’m driven by a transcendent purpose bigger than myself to create, to exist, to be— that simultaneously engulfs me whilst freeing me.

When I look back at my own creative, artistic and intellectual works whether they be my videos, essays/blog posts or journal entries— I still often struggle to feel value in them. I find myself feeling anxious or numb to them, being present with myself through these manifestations often feeling overwhelming. Perhaps it’s the shame being triggered— something I’ve greatly overcome, and something that’s still something for me to greatly overcome.

In a sense, it’s more intimate than looking at myself in a mirror— as someone who is overall happy about and confident in her physical appearance even if I get insecurities at times, looking at expressions of my feelings and desires— the vulnerabilities of my humanness, often triggering reactions of cringing at myself— I often feel exposed to myself, especially in my imperfections.

I’m still working on falling in love with perceiving myself— or more accurately, I’m still working on falling in love with the values that drive me to create and to feel worthy of emobodying these values through the vessels of my mind and body; I’m still working on accepting the magic of my soul, sourced from a divine source I refer to as my God as aligned with Sufi perceptions of Islam, even as an agnostic former Muslim.

Perhaps I ought to remember and feel that God is the source of all my magic and the magic of all others, and our souls are a part of that magic. That further means that accepting the soul as my ultimate self— the ultimate potential of who I am— means that I am accepting of my worthiness in validation from God as well as simultaneous humility given from my human limitations. It’s about deriving beauty from the dance between ego and soul, eternal transcendence of my existence and my mortality— finding meaning in the pursuit of my soul amidst the hardships— my soul, and especially the Source of it, being worth the journey.

I’ve said it before here in this essay, and I’ve said it before far before now— it’s not about me or you or anyone forcing themselves to be creative and good enough— it’s about removing the blocks that have been gatekeeping us from ourselves and from each other. It’s about accessing ourselves because we are no longer confined by the limitations others and systems of oppression have put on us— it’s about having faith in far beyond the worldly limitations.

It’s about removing the things that have stunted our flow and expansion, severed connection to our individual selves and others.

Yes, it sucks at times— but what if we find beauty in the suckiness? What if we love ourselves, each other and so much more that we are willing to venture into the darkness of lonely nights and feelings because something matters to us so much beyond what are currently trying to hold us back? What if we took breaks where needed and sobbed and curled up into balls where we were tired and screamed that we nearly lost our voice but we did so because we know we are going to have the deepest belly laughs and warmth in heavenly company on earth or even beyond in an existential transcendence whether we know about there being an afterlife or not?

The more I stop gatekeeping myself from myself, the better my life becomes. The more love I feel free to give, the less guilty I feel about being selective about who I allow intimate emotional connection and investment in.

The more I create, express, expand and connect.

Perhaps this blog post turned into somewhat of a digital journal entry of its own— one that I hope reaches those who need it.

To end on a more casual note and snap-back-to-reality, I love journaling at local coffee shops. I love how I sprawl out various supplies with yummy food or a caffeinated drink next to me. Or other times I love traveling lighter and just having my journal, my space themed book pouch that I use mostly for my journal and supplies rather than actual books, carrying a small handful of my favorite cool colored Pilot gel pens with me of multiple shades of blue and purple. I love journaling while surrounded in community. I love having these dates with myself where I get into a flow with my own thoughts. I also love journaling in the evenings in solitude. I love filling up the pages, and I love using markers and different colored gel pens, and I love seeing smudges of ink and marker and imprints of my words adorning my hands. It’s so satisfying to hold and feel my journal in my hands, knowing that I’m holding a physical portal into myself, and it’s exciting buying new journals for myself. I love having my favorite kinds of journals— currently it’s the sage and brown hues of the Karst Stone Paper journals. It’s so fun to see my favorite palette of cool colors making large bullet lists that take up multiple lines per bullet instead of confining everything to be compact every time. I love seeing stickers and the pops of color and the memories they remind me of from pleasant experiences. I love that my journals tell stories of my life both within and beyond the pages, having history of traveled between different third spaces and states and even countries. I love that my hopes and dreams and fears are in there, affirmations and confidence and insecurities. I love that I am free to be multifaceted there, niche-less and as creative, artistic and intellectual as I want to be, not confined by expectations of making sense to other people and limited by the confines of making myself suitable to a brand to advertise and sell to people. I love that my soul gets to shine.

I love how my journals are museums of my mind. And body and soul for that matter, too. Mosaics of my life within each journal, and then even bigger mosaics when multiple of my journals are put together.

I love how the ease of flow of creativity and expression— of manifesting myself— is reflected with the evolution of connecting to myself, deeper and deeper, removing barriers between my soul and I— my soul and human mind and human body.

I love being connected to myself— and I love how the connection to myself carries promises of connecting to others.

I love when I read other people’s books and stories and I find pieces of myself scattered in them.

Did you find pieces of yourself in here, too?