I remember staring at my notebook, pen poised, feeling a familiar mix of dread and obligation. It was 11 PM, my kitchen table was covered in crumbs from a sad dinner, and my brain was still buzzing with all the indignities of the day. "Just write it out," I'd told myself for months. "Get it all on paper. It'll make you feel better." Only, it usually didn't.
I'd started journaling a while back, after seeing countless articles (and a few enthusiastic friends) touting its mental health benefits. I bought a fancy, expensive notebook, a nice pen, and settled in to spill my guts every evening. My aim was clarity, you know, to untangle the mess in my head. I thought I was being super proactive about my emotional well-being. Turns out, I was mostly just creating a written record of my ongoing internal meltdowns.
Most nights, my entries read like a transcript of a very bad stand-up comedy routine where the punchline was always "and then I felt worse." I'd recap every annoying email, every slightly passive-aggressive comment from a colleague, every tiny mistake I'd made. "Boss sent that email again, asking about the thing I already sent, so frustrating. Clearly he thinks I'm incompetent. And I forgot to pick up milk. What even am I doing?" You get the picture.
I’d fill pages, sometimes for an hour, rehashing every single interaction, every slight, every fear. I truly believed I was "processing" my feelings. But instead of feeling lighter, I'd often close the notebook feeling heavier, more agitated, and usually more convinced that the world was out to get me. My partner, bless his patient heart, would ask if I felt better after my "writing time," and I'd just sigh dramatically. "No, actually, I think I'm angrier now." He learned to stop asking.
It hit me one particularly grim Tuesday. I’d spent an hour meticulously detailing a minor workplace misunderstanding, complete with imagined conversations and all the ways I felt wronged. I finished, slammed the notebook shut (a little too hard, probably), and realized my heart was pounding. I wasn't just reliving the frustration, I was intensifying it. My journaling had become less about understanding and more about wallowing, a solo pity party on paper. It wasn't reflection at all. It was rumination.
This realization wasn't a lightning bolt, more like a slow, dawning "oh, duh." I started noticing the pattern: the more I fixated on the problem in my writing, the worse I felt. The actual moment of change was subtle. I started trying to nudge my thoughts, even just a tiny bit. Instead of just "I'm so annoyed by X," I'd try adding, "Why does X annoy me so much? What can I do about X? Or, if I can't do anything, what can I learn from X?"
It wasn't easy, and frankly, some nights I still slip into the old habits. My notebook still sees its fair share of griping. But now, after the initial vent, I try to push for something else. I look for patterns, or a tiny glimmer of a solution, or just a different perspective. It’s like I’m retraining my brain, on paper, to move past just observing the chaos and actually try to make sense of it, or even just accept it without replaying it a thousand times.
Funnily enough, around the same time I was trying to figure this out, I stumbled across a really helpful article that delved into the research behind why reflection helps and rumination hurts, giving words to what I was fumbling through. It laid out the distinction perfectly, and if you’re also someone who journals and wonders why it sometimes leaves you feeling worse, you might find it super insightful: https://healthpartner.shrynshjn.com/blog/journaling-reflection-vs-rumination
It’s an ongoing process, this whole "understanding yourself" thing. My journaling isn't a magic fix, but it's definitely not the emotional quicksand it used to be. Sometimes, it even makes me feel, dare I say, a little clearer. And that's a win in my book.
Top comments (0)