Oh, Suleika… this is exquisite! You walk the tightrope between privacy and revelation with such a rare and unguarded grace. I read this and thought: how formidable, to risk being known by one’s own words, even when they weren’t written for an audience. Especially then.
Your reflection reminded me of something I once heard the philosopher Simone Weil say in— how attention, pure attention, is the rarest and most generous form of love. And what is journaling, really, if not a sustained act of attention toward the self? Not the narcissistic kind we are often warned against, but a loving curiosity: Who am I today? What aches? What astonishes?
What I love most here is the idea that a journal, far from being a record of fragmentation, can become a map of continuity. A private epic. A place where we glimpse, again and again, the “principle of being”, not in grand declarations, but in the way a sardine tastes, in what we choose to pray to, in the ordinary miracle of morning pages sent to someone we love.
And here’s a thought this sparked in me: maybe the reason those record execs didn’t touch your journals (if they even noticed them) is because something sacred emanates from true intimacy. The invisible hush around the real. Not because it hides, but because it radiates. And those who are meant to receive it, will.
Thank you for sharing this! It made me want to dust off my own journals, not to cringe at my younger self, no, but to meet her again. She might have something to teach me.
"What I love most here is the idea that a journal, far from being a record of fragmentation, can become a map of continuity. A private epic. A place where we glimpse, again and again, the “principle of being”, not in grand declarations, but in the way a sardine tastes, in what we choose to pray to, in the ordinary miracle of morning pages sent to someone we love." This. Wow.
“You walk the tightrope between privacy and revelation with such a rare and unguarded grace…” I love this as so true about Suleika‘s substack and goes so directly at the heart of some of the writing I am trying to do as well. Thank you for verbalizing this so beautifully, Tamara. And thank you to Suleika for the post itself.
Oh, I love that: an art installation of intimacy with the self. What a perfect phrase. It makes me think that perhaps the most honest art isn’t made for public display at all, it just accidentally ends up there. Like those journals. Like a dress someone forgets they’re still wearing when they answer the door.
And to your point: yes, I think that image is extraordinary, not just the physical presence of the journals, but what they suggest: that a life observed carefully is already a kind of masterpiece. We are so conditioned to curate, to present only the polished bits, but here was an unintentional exhibit of raw becoming, vulnerability unframed.
It also makes me wonder: what if we treated our inner worlds with the same reverence we show a gallery piece? Not editing them into neat narratives, but letting them be as they are: messy, unfinished, in progress. This is what real authorship is about.
Tamara your note here is profoundly moving to me. A thousand times yes - our inner worlds deserve the reverence of gallery masterpieces, with the distinct benefit of having permission-gated protections from any commercial editor. For this it is good to observe strong passwords! (meaning boundaries of self to well meaning curators and vampires alike).
I’ve been seen for years. I need to review my old journals. This gives me the impetus to do that. Thanks Suleika, for opening the door with another courageous act.
My journal was always a place where language forgot its manners—spilling across the page like water without a cup. It wasn’t a book, not really. More like a lifeboat holding what I could no longer carry. Sometimes a puddle. Sometimes a sea.
There were years I didn’t dare open a blank page. I was afraid of what might rise—anger, sorrow, the truths I’d folded small & hidden deep. My words felt like strangers. I didn’t know how to greet them without trembling.
Now I come as I am. Rambling, restless, reverent. Some days I bring questions. Other days, confessions. The page never flinches. I’ve found silence there. Also, evidence I survived.
A soft place to land, even when the fall is my own.
See you & EG at your Monday – 7pm & my Tuesday – 9am X
And "years I didn't dare open a blank page." I once read that only unhappy people journal. For years my journal was a place of record and creativity -- thoughts after films and books that connected to my work, 'asides' scribbled during grad school lectures to get the thoughts down and then go back to being a student, moments to remember.
And then it became a place of recording the difficulties and fears of my child's medical complexity, the frustration, loneliness, and anger. Later, the lowest points in my marriage. When I reread my journals, I realized I'd always been searching for a better, more contented me and had never found her. My journals make me weep and I cannot reread them, yet I can't discard them. Sitting with my journal beside me now, I know I won't open it -- I fear it it telling me the truths I know, that I have not become the person I set out to be, that I won't have the courage to take risks to become her, and that I'm mortified to have put this here, on a public board of not-strangers who will be less judgmental than the real people in my life.
Ilene, thank you for sharing this. I felt every word. There’s such courage in naming what the page has held for you, & in choosing to leave the journal closed today, with it still beside you. I see the tenderness in that. Truly. And I’m honoured you placed this here.
That line came quietly—just like the tree it was birthed from. Steady, sure of itself, the perfect haven for whatever needed to land. I’m so glad it found something in you, Carmen.
Thank you, Ginger. I love knowing that line found something in you—it arrived a little uncombed, which felt just right. And yes, lifeboats. I think we’re all just trying to find one that floats.
A soft place to land....is a phrase I want to remember and hold close. I actively journal less, but after a hectic week even month my observations are journal entries imprinted in my memory that I want to scribble pen to paper.
I’m so glad that line landed for you, Brenda. And I love how you said that—some memories are journal entries, even if they’ve never met the page. I’ve never been particularly disciplined with the practice either, but I know those seasons when the mind feels heavy & the body quietly begs to tuck the words somewhere they can rest.
"The page never flinches. I've found silence there. Also, evidence I survived."
Never more than this past year have I needed this realization - that my journal entries are truly the evidence that I survived! Whew..thank you for lending your words to so many of us today.
Survival, yes indeed. Megan—thank you for sharing that. I’m so moved to know the words met you in such a tender season. Your presence & your cheer have been received wholeheartedly.
These days, I’m 76 and very content with life. I no longer have the angst and relationship turmoil that filled my journals years ago. Now it seems I just like to keep track of mundane things like how many steps I’ve taken, weight and financial matters. Numbers I like to write down numbers. I always end with a list of things I’m grateful for…..I feel pretty lucky!
In the Isolation Journals I find I can go deep within these prompts because it feels like I’m sharing intimacies of my life with a close friend who won’t judge me and will support my depth. My depth can only be shared in safe, wise places like this beautiful isolation journal. What a blessing to share the depth of my feelings with like minded and people who don’t see me, but that’s cool! I’m here, alive, so alive, and Suleika thru your pain and beauty you created this place of magic with our wonderful community. See you tomorrow night with Liz. Bless this gorgeous community. —some of who are dealing with deep pain and share bravely with us. We all honor me another. A quote by a famous poet if I got it right, but Maya Angelous said “ I don’t care what people say about me, but hope they remember how I made them feel”. Feelings for men aren’t encouraged in USA, but hopefully with the younger generation that’s changing. I love you all. Sherri
My very best wishes to you, Jon, your friends-team and everyone involved with your book tour, Suleika. We all know it'll be a WONDER-filled success.
Dear Journal page, Thank you for giving me the uninhibited space to just BE, without judgment or social constructs, and allowing the mess to sit, just as it is, spread out and free. Me.
The free, perfectly imperfect mess, the self-compassionate hug and the meditation for insights can be messy, but this safe space is mine.
Thank you Suleika for this intimate prompt! I've found over the last few years I've actually become afraid of my journals. I cringe sometimes when I revisit my old ones, and it's gotten in the way of my journalling practice. I've been trying to find my way back to it...
I keep trying to read through my journals–and sometimes when I leave them on a table I fear that someone might break into the house and just sort of randomly add the journal that is out into the burglar's bag. So, then I move it off the table where I've put it to be a visual reminder to read it. That seems to be my fear: losing the opportunity to review my life, my development, my history.
I’ve been journaling for decades, not always consistently, but each time I pick one up and write, it feels like a long drink of water when I’m parched. Just seeing that photo of your pile of notebooks stokes a longing in me to pick mine up, which I’ll do when I get up in a few hours. As for going back and rereading, it’s a mix of cringe, compassion for myself and discovery. My journals from two and three decades ago have been helpful (and painful) in stepping back into a time I’m writing about in my memoir.
Wishing you all the best with your book launch and tour and as always much love and gratitude! Xo
When I revisit my journals..and even recall the ones I destroyed after nomadic wandering, I am equally astonished at my consistent worries and struggles as well as joys and loves in music, books and movies. The latter journals focus on my inner life capturing a snapshot in time. Thanks to the community members for sharing thoughts on the most private self.
When I journal, I don't hesitate. It all comes tumbling out, a verbal waterfall: "My heart hurts, what a magical day, there's nothing in the fridge but when I went to Stop n' Slop I sat in the parking lot for 2 hours before driving back home empty handed, why do I miss my husband and kids when they're at work/school/friend's house and then find myself staring at them as if strangers when they're right in front of my face?, I'm sunburned, I can't believe Mom actually died on me, wtf is wrong with me that I can't remember ANY of my passwords, do my old doggies remember how much I loved them, do my old friends remember how much I loved them, are we losing our humanity over the price of eggs but really because we've forgotten how to care deeply for each other?" And then I hesitate. And in the hesitation, I judge my words because they come from my thoughts that I also judge, and I also cringe because cringe and judge are two Twix ingredients for my noggin candy. And then Suleika does what Suleika does, and manages to wrap a purty bow on truth and vulnerability, and I'm left in awe and in the question marked space that asks me to either carry on the same way or to shrug off the familiar cape of judgy, cringy shame and let 'er rip on page and off. A living journal of gratitude and snark, of hope and swear words, of surety and doubt. So grateful for all of you heart-sharers, acting as if life is precious and short and musical!
My journaling is filled with fits and starts. The Isolation journals got me back into a rhythm . Sometimes when I start there seems like there would never be enough pages for my word vomit, other times when I wake in the middle of the night not able to sleep.. a few lines and I feel unburdened and at peace. Safe space that I can just be and yes a way to examine my life
First a full confession: I’m greatly lacking in self-discipline when it comes to journaling. I’m traveling, and I brought a small booklet to record some of my thoughts about where I’ve been, what I’ve seen, and how it all felt, but it’s still in my bag waiting.
Yet with the encouragement of the IJ and Suleika, I have managed to pour myself into a few journals at home and learn a great deal about myself in the process.
I write a lot about my fears with an intensity I can express only to myself. I’ve always struggled with who I want to be; through my journaling I’ve found there are limits to who I am and what I can accomplish, and I’ve learned I should be content with who I am. I’m ok. In writing about the traumas of my childhood, my cancer ordeals, and the sense of foreboding that comes with advancing age, I’ve discovered a resilience in myself that I didn’t know I had.
I give a great deal of credit to the Isolation Journals for providing me the platform for self-awareness that has enriched my life this way. Now I need to get that little booklet out and get busy journaling. Not everything has gone well on this trip. There are stories I’ll want to remember as I continue with my life when I’m home.
Yes, Teri, yes! This "platform for self-awareness" has helped me to know me better, and also gvien me the rich opportunity to read of so many other people and their stories, their strifes, their triumphs and I feel so much better for that human connection.
You're so right Teri - here we have a place to sort things out. Both the outrage and the gratitude for the beauty in the moment. I always feel better when I journal; it's like after a good cry. Safe and happy trails -
Funny how when I read your word “cry” I teared up! Something about getting kind words and validation from others that always sets me off. My husband has developed a problem that is worrying me. So it’s good to have the connection with you and the others who responded to me here today. Many thanks and lots of love to you.
I had an upsetting journaling experience many years ago. For high school graduation, I received a journal of blank pages from a relative who knew of my interest in writing. I wrote in it over 15 years--through the college angst and growth opportunities, about various romantic relationships and heartbreak, adventures I had with friends, my move to Dallas and the pain of trying to "make it," while I noted the cultural events and novelties of the time that I thought would be fun to reflect on in coming years. It was amusing years later to read about the introduction of the novel "walkman," 1980s music icons like Duran Duran, and frozen yogurt, for example. I wrote in it infrequently, so it was easy to see me my growth from an adolescent into an adult. When I married in my early 30s, I place my journal in a bookshelf, forgetting it was even there. Unfortunately, my new husband stumbled upon it while packing and couldn't resist the temptation of reading it. "I'm sorry, I didn't at first realize what it was," he explained. "And then it was just so interesting." I was unprepared for his reaction--remorse over reading something so private without my permission--and genuine pain over what he had read about my past relationships. He was practically in tears over it, although there was nothing that unusual--just a lot of my feelings expressed. He was unable to put my feelings into context of a young girl going through the pains of life and personalized it to his own insecurities. Of course, I was upset and angry over his violating my privacy and trust. I was also embarrassed, and worse, ashamed. We worked through it, but I couldn't stand to see the journal which now stood as a symbol of my shame. I could no longer read it with a smile of nostalgia so one day just tossed it into the trash. Since then, I've had a hard time noting my feelings in writing for fear of who may read them and misunderstand. I do keep an online journal about my health and healing journey, but always keep in mind that someday, someone may read it with unexpected results. Btw, sardines are really good for you (lots of b12) and taste best eaten in a salad with tuna.
Oh Suzanne—that’s a very upsetting turn of events, and it makes so much sense you’d have reservations about putting down your feelings. Wishing you a sense of liberation on the page ❤️
thank you. it was over 30 years ago, but yes, still lingers. I had a lot of conflicting emotions about that experience that would have been helpful to journal about!
Suzanne … I hear you and I’ve been you. Such a betrayal and by the one you loved the most. It’s shattering when your deepest everything is exposed to the light you did not turn on. Heck, you didn’t even place a light near your journals. Every word, sketch, confession, factoid or whatever meant for your eyes only suddenly released into the universe. Shame is deeply corrosive emotion. I don’t know how many people remember John Bradshaw. He was prominent in the recovery field in my early days of healing. He said, “Guilt means I made a mistake, but shame means I AM a mistake.” Thirty years ago, I was involved in a workers compensation lawsuit. I had to fight to keep my journals from being turned over to my employer. When I won that fight, I burned every single one of my journals. It’s not the journal’s fault that it was exposed, but it sure feels like it. What had once brought peace and sanity now delivered fear and shame. Burning them was the only way to protect me. I, too, have a hard time putting my words/thoughts to paper. Thanks to TIJ, I’m slowly experimenting with journaling again. Kudos for creating your online health and healing journal. It’s a way back to trusting the written word again. In 2024, I challenged myself to write a haiku a day about the day telling myself it wasn’t journaling, but we all know it was. The important thing is that it was a start - a start to reclaim my voice and express it however I choose. Ultimately, we have both taken back our power and time will capture our journey. Good luck, Suzanne 💜
Spot on with guilt vs. shame. Shame is really the lowest emotion. I'm sorry you went through something similar. That situation sounds very traumatic, and I can only imagine the anxiety you must have felt over the threat of having such private, intimate thoughts revealed to the entire world. It certainly puts you in a place to understand my own experience. People who write tend to be sensitive, feeling everything deeply. That's one of the reasons I write--to express all those myriads of confusing emotions and help me make sense of my world. When I'm upset or confused, I write it down, and I then have clarity. I've written a lot beyond journaling so never really stopped, but the idea of putting those private and very personal thoughts to paper after the great reveal, was rather daunting. The healing journal is a safe way to do that. I sometimes regret throwing that journal away, but I've moved on. It sounds like you have done the work toward healing--really lifelong work I've found. I'm glad that you are able to view such a negative experience in a positive light. We are here to grow and learn. For years, I have worked on a collection of light-hearted folksy stories from my childhood on our farm (we lived in both the city and spent time in rural Missouri). Although it's really meant to document that part of our family history for future generations, I have yet to share it with any family, although I have with others. I'm afraid of offending. One person who read it commented, "your writing is beautiful, almost too perfect.... but where's the anger over what happened to you?" Anger just hits too close to home, is too revealing and may have the opposite effect of my intention. Not yet ready for that. I'm happy that you are writing again in a form that feels safe for you. Best to you, and thanks for responding. I feel understood.
Thank you for your kind, supportive words! I, too feel heard and seen - a most precious gift. Thank you. TIJ is a beautiful space to love and support our fellow creatives’ journeys. Agree, healing is a lifelong exercise. I use exercise because it requires action, movement and challenge. I love the folksy stories documenting living on a farm. Everything we write/create doesn’t have to record the worst things that happened to us. You’ll write about the darker pain if and when you’re ready. I’ve been hesitant to document the details of every sexual violence I endured. The most important thing is that I know the truth and have used it to heal. A summary may be sufficient. I don’t know, but that’s where I am. I’m 70 and my son will turn 45 this year and I still struggle/wrestle with whether he needs to know the details. I know he’s 45 but my heart and mind still want to protect him as though he was still 8. Follow your intuitive voice. It’s been a good teacher and guide so far. Sending light and love as you continue your journey!
Thank you. Yes, life is full of its pain, both small and large. That's why we write, as a way to not only cope, but also to perhaps turn life's pain into something beautiful to share. But some pieces are meant only for the author's eyes.
My writings reflect the privacy of the time in the early morning when I feel closest to God
My writings reflect the privacy of the subway where hundreds of us gather and still my unconscious self can not be seen but it loves to come through my hand
My writings reflect the privacy of walking alone through Central Park or seeing a play ( many) by myself
My writings reflect the privacy of my learning after I listen and speak to what I have learned and then sit and ponder all alone
My journal is scattered in many books, in many places including here in my phone where pieces are often sent to friends.It is a memory of who I am in my privacy and who I have become publicly.
I told my children for ages, don’t look for journals filled with wisdom and my wistful thoughts on life after I am gone because you’ll only find lists, list upon list upon list. You’ll know what I did on September 16, 2013 while trying to reign in my unbroken life. And then leukemia. Now I have journals and I see from your missive this morning that in my journals I have been documenting my life examined, not just done. Two weeks ago I relapsed, I am wondering now, and I already know the immediate answer “did I not dig enough?” So I’ll write today. I have a “good cancer” treatable-incurable. It doesn’t mean I cannot be healed. Journaling is the first layer of triage for me.
"Journal is the first layer of triage for me." I love that so very much. Holding you in my prayers -- may you go from strength to strength in this next phase.
Hmmmm. I turn to sound, to music as my journal keeping. I compose almost every day. The first tone is for me opening a blank journal page. I never know what is about to occur. I am growing to trust that this process is a roadmap into my inner landscape. I wait for a title to announce itself. I know all too well that I can’t “think up” a title. The music itself will inform me. What life is asking of me at that moment will arrive as the music and the title. This is my form of journalling.🏮
David … This is lovely 💜 So many ways to express oneself. For me, listening to music cuts through the unneeded words resonating the truth. How amazing that you journal this way!
Grace, I found grace and unflinching honesty in Life Interrupted way back-- and like bobbing for apples I kept looking for you and others brought along. Honestly, it is such a relief to be amongst us traveling on. My journals are usually public, as in loosening boulders others can as well. I love writing on poles like in the Berlin that I so lived-- Ironically Klaus Kinsky was a traveling poet, screaming (I don't know what) yet profound. The storytellers of Morocco- and yes lives interrupted and rebirthed sometimes. This week's share is so special, it is cultivating in my heart. Cheers Suleika-- a week to come is blooming- and we will be with you all the way home.
I’ll never forget the time when an artist and writer - my parents’ friend who became my mentor for both - saw that I left my journals, aka “diaries” at the time, open on my desk. I was 10 and had no idea they were supposed to be private.
That has forever influenced my understanding of writing and truth.
Only true writing is worth reading, but it’s also the hardest to do and lay open.
What has been hardest for me to send someone my writings only to learn that he doesn’t understand is that it is a piece of my heart that I have written to him! ( and he doesn’t like the format!!!)lol that was quite the lesson!
Awhile back my husband was wondering when my hyper vigilance took root, or when my higher intense anxiety levels slithered in to my life, our life? When had the disruption began to distort, my, our peace of mind? At times, I wondered if I was going crazy. He thought it was Covid. I suggested it might be unresolved grief with the death of our dear daughter Sara at the young age of 26, almost 25 years ago.
Curious, I went searching.
As an avid journal keeper since teenhood, I headed to the attic of our log home (which is nestled against the foothills of the BC Coastal Mountains) to delve into the dusty cardboard boxes bulging with my journals - the encyclopedia of my life- the Keeper of my Secrets, Dreams, Hopes, Heartaches, Joys and Worries.
For hours I huddled in the safety of the tight attic space consuming pages and pages of cursive writing.
Words and moments leapt out at me soothing my questing mind, worry and self doubts. I actually laughed out loud. Relief rushed through me.
I wasn’t going crazy. I wasn’t suppressing grief or reliving the horrid challenges of Covid. Anxiety has been a part of my life in one form or another - like forever. It kept me safe from imagined or real threats. Grizzlies, a rifle toting crazy neighbour and a deadly virus. And, it also allowed my creative imagination to run wild, the main driver for my successful work in the theatre and music industry.
Anxiety was my friend. It was not a bad thing. It was something I have lived with for years and didn’t even know it. I gathered up an armful of journals and hurried back downstairs to spread them out in-front of my husband. “Grab a cup of coffee”, I told him, “I have something exciting to share with you.”
The Isolation Journals community is a living, breathing therapy group filled with patience, compassion and grace. It is a lifeline connecting our loving and sometimes, shattered hearts, from around the world. It continues to be the heartbeat and the glue of life for any of us brave enough to be curious, to quest for the answers yet known.
Thank you, Suleika for inviting us in to your kaleidoscope world of wonder, love and joy. Best wishes for your Book tour. See you Monday night.
Oh, Suleika… this is exquisite! You walk the tightrope between privacy and revelation with such a rare and unguarded grace. I read this and thought: how formidable, to risk being known by one’s own words, even when they weren’t written for an audience. Especially then.
Your reflection reminded me of something I once heard the philosopher Simone Weil say in— how attention, pure attention, is the rarest and most generous form of love. And what is journaling, really, if not a sustained act of attention toward the self? Not the narcissistic kind we are often warned against, but a loving curiosity: Who am I today? What aches? What astonishes?
What I love most here is the idea that a journal, far from being a record of fragmentation, can become a map of continuity. A private epic. A place where we glimpse, again and again, the “principle of being”, not in grand declarations, but in the way a sardine tastes, in what we choose to pray to, in the ordinary miracle of morning pages sent to someone we love.
And here’s a thought this sparked in me: maybe the reason those record execs didn’t touch your journals (if they even noticed them) is because something sacred emanates from true intimacy. The invisible hush around the real. Not because it hides, but because it radiates. And those who are meant to receive it, will.
Thank you for sharing this! It made me want to dust off my own journals, not to cringe at my younger self, no, but to meet her again. She might have something to teach me.
“A map of continuity.” Beautiful.
Do it! And come back and tell us what she had to say!!
"What I love most here is the idea that a journal, far from being a record of fragmentation, can become a map of continuity. A private epic. A place where we glimpse, again and again, the “principle of being”, not in grand declarations, but in the way a sardine tastes, in what we choose to pray to, in the ordinary miracle of morning pages sent to someone we love." This. Wow.
Thank you, Ilene!
Something emanates from true intimacy
“You walk the tightrope between privacy and revelation with such a rare and unguarded grace…” I love this as so true about Suleika‘s substack and goes so directly at the heart of some of the writing I am trying to do as well. Thank you for verbalizing this so beautifully, Tamara. And thank you to Suleika for the post itself.
Thank you, Susan!
Just beautiful, Tamara. 💞
Thank you!
Sent before I say how beautiful and moving your responses are Tamara.
Thank you, Alyson!
Suleika’s journals on the table look like an art installation of intimacy with the self…what do you think Tamara?
Oh, I love that: an art installation of intimacy with the self. What a perfect phrase. It makes me think that perhaps the most honest art isn’t made for public display at all, it just accidentally ends up there. Like those journals. Like a dress someone forgets they’re still wearing when they answer the door.
And to your point: yes, I think that image is extraordinary, not just the physical presence of the journals, but what they suggest: that a life observed carefully is already a kind of masterpiece. We are so conditioned to curate, to present only the polished bits, but here was an unintentional exhibit of raw becoming, vulnerability unframed.
It also makes me wonder: what if we treated our inner worlds with the same reverence we show a gallery piece? Not editing them into neat narratives, but letting them be as they are: messy, unfinished, in progress. This is what real authorship is about.
I love all of your thoughts on this—
so rich and poignant
and true. Thank you for this conversation Tamara and everyone.🙏
Tamara your note here is profoundly moving to me. A thousand times yes - our inner worlds deserve the reverence of gallery masterpieces, with the distinct benefit of having permission-gated protections from any commercial editor. For this it is good to observe strong passwords! (meaning boundaries of self to well meaning curators and vampires alike).
Thank you, Shelli!
Something sacred emanates from true intimacy…
Tamara, I believe this to be so.
It is.
I’ve been seen for years. I need to review my old journals. This gives me the impetus to do that. Thanks Suleika, for opening the door with another courageous act.
Pulled out a journal from 2004- solitary winter in rural Colorado. Mental Health therapist in tiny mountain town.
A slice of American heartache and tragedy-moments illuminated by positive change.
Weekends rejuvenated in renewed friendships,
awesome natural beauty of Rocky Mountains. Shoveling 3 feet of snow 5 weeks in a row. journaling.
Beautiful.
My journal was always a place where language forgot its manners—spilling across the page like water without a cup. It wasn’t a book, not really. More like a lifeboat holding what I could no longer carry. Sometimes a puddle. Sometimes a sea.
There were years I didn’t dare open a blank page. I was afraid of what might rise—anger, sorrow, the truths I’d folded small & hidden deep. My words felt like strangers. I didn’t know how to greet them without trembling.
Now I come as I am. Rambling, restless, reverent. Some days I bring questions. Other days, confessions. The page never flinches. I’ve found silence there. Also, evidence I survived.
A soft place to land, even when the fall is my own.
See you & EG at your Monday – 7pm & my Tuesday – 9am X
“Where language forgot its manners”—genius way to describe the journal and exactly right! ❤️
That's exactly what struck me, too.
And "years I didn't dare open a blank page." I once read that only unhappy people journal. For years my journal was a place of record and creativity -- thoughts after films and books that connected to my work, 'asides' scribbled during grad school lectures to get the thoughts down and then go back to being a student, moments to remember.
And then it became a place of recording the difficulties and fears of my child's medical complexity, the frustration, loneliness, and anger. Later, the lowest points in my marriage. When I reread my journals, I realized I'd always been searching for a better, more contented me and had never found her. My journals make me weep and I cannot reread them, yet I can't discard them. Sitting with my journal beside me now, I know I won't open it -- I fear it it telling me the truths I know, that I have not become the person I set out to be, that I won't have the courage to take risks to become her, and that I'm mortified to have put this here, on a public board of not-strangers who will be less judgmental than the real people in my life.
Ilene, thank you for sharing this. I felt every word. There’s such courage in naming what the page has held for you, & in choosing to leave the journal closed today, with it still beside you. I see the tenderness in that. Truly. And I’m honoured you placed this here.
It’s not every day the word genius knocks at your door—especially for a line that wandered out unbrushed & barefoot. Thank you, Suleika.
“The page never flinches”—yes yes yes!
That line came quietly—just like the tree it was birthed from. Steady, sure of itself, the perfect haven for whatever needed to land. I’m so glad it found something in you, Carmen.
Kim, you are a true poet.
Thank you, Ilene. Your words felt like a small light left on. I’m grateful to have found them waiting.
I resonate so much with this. I love “where language forgot its manners”. A lifeboat for sure for me.
Thank you, Ginger. I love knowing that line found something in you—it arrived a little uncombed, which felt just right. And yes, lifeboats. I think we’re all just trying to find one that floats.
A soft place to land....is a phrase I want to remember and hold close. I actively journal less, but after a hectic week even month my observations are journal entries imprinted in my memory that I want to scribble pen to paper.
I’m so glad that line landed for you, Brenda. And I love how you said that—some memories are journal entries, even if they’ve never met the page. I’ve never been particularly disciplined with the practice either, but I know those seasons when the mind feels heavy & the body quietly begs to tuck the words somewhere they can rest.
"The page never flinches. I've found silence there. Also, evidence I survived."
Never more than this past year have I needed this realization - that my journal entries are truly the evidence that I survived! Whew..thank you for lending your words to so many of us today.
Survival, yes indeed. Megan—thank you for sharing that. I’m so moved to know the words met you in such a tender season. Your presence & your cheer have been received wholeheartedly.
...I’ve found silence there. Also, evidence I survived. Love this so much, thank you Kim!
Thank you, Shelli. It’s my pleasure to find you here—and even more so to know the words found you too.
These days, I’m 76 and very content with life. I no longer have the angst and relationship turmoil that filled my journals years ago. Now it seems I just like to keep track of mundane things like how many steps I’ve taken, weight and financial matters. Numbers I like to write down numbers. I always end with a list of things I’m grateful for…..I feel pretty lucky!
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One of life’s greatest talents is to recognize when we are happy- right in the moment.
So glad you have this exquisite skill.
In the Isolation Journals I find I can go deep within these prompts because it feels like I’m sharing intimacies of my life with a close friend who won’t judge me and will support my depth. My depth can only be shared in safe, wise places like this beautiful isolation journal. What a blessing to share the depth of my feelings with like minded and people who don’t see me, but that’s cool! I’m here, alive, so alive, and Suleika thru your pain and beauty you created this place of magic with our wonderful community. See you tomorrow night with Liz. Bless this gorgeous community. —some of who are dealing with deep pain and share bravely with us. We all honor me another. A quote by a famous poet if I got it right, but Maya Angelous said “ I don’t care what people say about me, but hope they remember how I made them feel”. Feelings for men aren’t encouraged in USA, but hopefully with the younger generation that’s changing. I love you all. Sherri
My very best wishes to you, Jon, your friends-team and everyone involved with your book tour, Suleika. We all know it'll be a WONDER-filled success.
Dear Journal page, Thank you for giving me the uninhibited space to just BE, without judgment or social constructs, and allowing the mess to sit, just as it is, spread out and free. Me.
The free, perfectly imperfect mess, the self-compassionate hug and the meditation for insights can be messy, but this safe space is mine.
Thank you, Victoria—I couldn’t be more excited!!
Thank you Suleika for this intimate prompt! I've found over the last few years I've actually become afraid of my journals. I cringe sometimes when I revisit my old ones, and it's gotten in the way of my journalling practice. I've been trying to find my way back to it...
I keep trying to read through my journals–and sometimes when I leave them on a table I fear that someone might break into the house and just sort of randomly add the journal that is out into the burglar's bag. So, then I move it off the table where I've put it to be a visual reminder to read it. That seems to be my fear: losing the opportunity to review my life, my development, my history.
I’ve been journaling for decades, not always consistently, but each time I pick one up and write, it feels like a long drink of water when I’m parched. Just seeing that photo of your pile of notebooks stokes a longing in me to pick mine up, which I’ll do when I get up in a few hours. As for going back and rereading, it’s a mix of cringe, compassion for myself and discovery. My journals from two and three decades ago have been helpful (and painful) in stepping back into a time I’m writing about in my memoir.
Wishing you all the best with your book launch and tour and as always much love and gratitude! Xo
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When I revisit my journals..and even recall the ones I destroyed after nomadic wandering, I am equally astonished at my consistent worries and struggles as well as joys and loves in music, books and movies. The latter journals focus on my inner life capturing a snapshot in time. Thanks to the community members for sharing thoughts on the most private self.
Yes, I noticed that myself. Lots of repetition in the worries and resolutions.
When I journal, I don't hesitate. It all comes tumbling out, a verbal waterfall: "My heart hurts, what a magical day, there's nothing in the fridge but when I went to Stop n' Slop I sat in the parking lot for 2 hours before driving back home empty handed, why do I miss my husband and kids when they're at work/school/friend's house and then find myself staring at them as if strangers when they're right in front of my face?, I'm sunburned, I can't believe Mom actually died on me, wtf is wrong with me that I can't remember ANY of my passwords, do my old doggies remember how much I loved them, do my old friends remember how much I loved them, are we losing our humanity over the price of eggs but really because we've forgotten how to care deeply for each other?" And then I hesitate. And in the hesitation, I judge my words because they come from my thoughts that I also judge, and I also cringe because cringe and judge are two Twix ingredients for my noggin candy. And then Suleika does what Suleika does, and manages to wrap a purty bow on truth and vulnerability, and I'm left in awe and in the question marked space that asks me to either carry on the same way or to shrug off the familiar cape of judgy, cringy shame and let 'er rip on page and off. A living journal of gratitude and snark, of hope and swear words, of surety and doubt. So grateful for all of you heart-sharers, acting as if life is precious and short and musical!
Jo! This is propulsive and beautiful—Kerouac couldn’t have done better with the rhythm and certainly the emotional arc. Cringe and judge be gone! ❤️
My journaling is filled with fits and starts. The Isolation journals got me back into a rhythm . Sometimes when I start there seems like there would never be enough pages for my word vomit, other times when I wake in the middle of the night not able to sleep.. a few lines and I feel unburdened and at peace. Safe space that I can just be and yes a way to examine my life
First a full confession: I’m greatly lacking in self-discipline when it comes to journaling. I’m traveling, and I brought a small booklet to record some of my thoughts about where I’ve been, what I’ve seen, and how it all felt, but it’s still in my bag waiting.
Yet with the encouragement of the IJ and Suleika, I have managed to pour myself into a few journals at home and learn a great deal about myself in the process.
I write a lot about my fears with an intensity I can express only to myself. I’ve always struggled with who I want to be; through my journaling I’ve found there are limits to who I am and what I can accomplish, and I’ve learned I should be content with who I am. I’m ok. In writing about the traumas of my childhood, my cancer ordeals, and the sense of foreboding that comes with advancing age, I’ve discovered a resilience in myself that I didn’t know I had.
I give a great deal of credit to the Isolation Journals for providing me the platform for self-awareness that has enriched my life this way. Now I need to get that little booklet out and get busy journaling. Not everything has gone well on this trip. There are stories I’ll want to remember as I continue with my life when I’m home.
That self knowledge is a real power. So glad you’re here, Teri ❤️
Yes, Teri, yes! This "platform for self-awareness" has helped me to know me better, and also gvien me the rich opportunity to read of so many other people and their stories, their strifes, their triumphs and I feel so much better for that human connection.
You're so right Teri - here we have a place to sort things out. Both the outrage and the gratitude for the beauty in the moment. I always feel better when I journal; it's like after a good cry. Safe and happy trails -
Funny how when I read your word “cry” I teared up! Something about getting kind words and validation from others that always sets me off. My husband has developed a problem that is worrying me. So it’s good to have the connection with you and the others who responded to me here today. Many thanks and lots of love to you.
Now I am. Pick up that booklet. Let some of that out. Love and prayers heading your way. I am so grateful you're here.
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I had an upsetting journaling experience many years ago. For high school graduation, I received a journal of blank pages from a relative who knew of my interest in writing. I wrote in it over 15 years--through the college angst and growth opportunities, about various romantic relationships and heartbreak, adventures I had with friends, my move to Dallas and the pain of trying to "make it," while I noted the cultural events and novelties of the time that I thought would be fun to reflect on in coming years. It was amusing years later to read about the introduction of the novel "walkman," 1980s music icons like Duran Duran, and frozen yogurt, for example. I wrote in it infrequently, so it was easy to see me my growth from an adolescent into an adult. When I married in my early 30s, I place my journal in a bookshelf, forgetting it was even there. Unfortunately, my new husband stumbled upon it while packing and couldn't resist the temptation of reading it. "I'm sorry, I didn't at first realize what it was," he explained. "And then it was just so interesting." I was unprepared for his reaction--remorse over reading something so private without my permission--and genuine pain over what he had read about my past relationships. He was practically in tears over it, although there was nothing that unusual--just a lot of my feelings expressed. He was unable to put my feelings into context of a young girl going through the pains of life and personalized it to his own insecurities. Of course, I was upset and angry over his violating my privacy and trust. I was also embarrassed, and worse, ashamed. We worked through it, but I couldn't stand to see the journal which now stood as a symbol of my shame. I could no longer read it with a smile of nostalgia so one day just tossed it into the trash. Since then, I've had a hard time noting my feelings in writing for fear of who may read them and misunderstand. I do keep an online journal about my health and healing journey, but always keep in mind that someday, someone may read it with unexpected results. Btw, sardines are really good for you (lots of b12) and taste best eaten in a salad with tuna.
Oh Suzanne—that’s a very upsetting turn of events, and it makes so much sense you’d have reservations about putting down your feelings. Wishing you a sense of liberation on the page ❤️
thank you. it was over 30 years ago, but yes, still lingers. I had a lot of conflicting emotions about that experience that would have been helpful to journal about!
Suzanne … I hear you and I’ve been you. Such a betrayal and by the one you loved the most. It’s shattering when your deepest everything is exposed to the light you did not turn on. Heck, you didn’t even place a light near your journals. Every word, sketch, confession, factoid or whatever meant for your eyes only suddenly released into the universe. Shame is deeply corrosive emotion. I don’t know how many people remember John Bradshaw. He was prominent in the recovery field in my early days of healing. He said, “Guilt means I made a mistake, but shame means I AM a mistake.” Thirty years ago, I was involved in a workers compensation lawsuit. I had to fight to keep my journals from being turned over to my employer. When I won that fight, I burned every single one of my journals. It’s not the journal’s fault that it was exposed, but it sure feels like it. What had once brought peace and sanity now delivered fear and shame. Burning them was the only way to protect me. I, too, have a hard time putting my words/thoughts to paper. Thanks to TIJ, I’m slowly experimenting with journaling again. Kudos for creating your online health and healing journal. It’s a way back to trusting the written word again. In 2024, I challenged myself to write a haiku a day about the day telling myself it wasn’t journaling, but we all know it was. The important thing is that it was a start - a start to reclaim my voice and express it however I choose. Ultimately, we have both taken back our power and time will capture our journey. Good luck, Suzanne 💜
Spot on with guilt vs. shame. Shame is really the lowest emotion. I'm sorry you went through something similar. That situation sounds very traumatic, and I can only imagine the anxiety you must have felt over the threat of having such private, intimate thoughts revealed to the entire world. It certainly puts you in a place to understand my own experience. People who write tend to be sensitive, feeling everything deeply. That's one of the reasons I write--to express all those myriads of confusing emotions and help me make sense of my world. When I'm upset or confused, I write it down, and I then have clarity. I've written a lot beyond journaling so never really stopped, but the idea of putting those private and very personal thoughts to paper after the great reveal, was rather daunting. The healing journal is a safe way to do that. I sometimes regret throwing that journal away, but I've moved on. It sounds like you have done the work toward healing--really lifelong work I've found. I'm glad that you are able to view such a negative experience in a positive light. We are here to grow and learn. For years, I have worked on a collection of light-hearted folksy stories from my childhood on our farm (we lived in both the city and spent time in rural Missouri). Although it's really meant to document that part of our family history for future generations, I have yet to share it with any family, although I have with others. I'm afraid of offending. One person who read it commented, "your writing is beautiful, almost too perfect.... but where's the anger over what happened to you?" Anger just hits too close to home, is too revealing and may have the opposite effect of my intention. Not yet ready for that. I'm happy that you are writing again in a form that feels safe for you. Best to you, and thanks for responding. I feel understood.
Thank you for your kind, supportive words! I, too feel heard and seen - a most precious gift. Thank you. TIJ is a beautiful space to love and support our fellow creatives’ journeys. Agree, healing is a lifelong exercise. I use exercise because it requires action, movement and challenge. I love the folksy stories documenting living on a farm. Everything we write/create doesn’t have to record the worst things that happened to us. You’ll write about the darker pain if and when you’re ready. I’ve been hesitant to document the details of every sexual violence I endured. The most important thing is that I know the truth and have used it to heal. A summary may be sufficient. I don’t know, but that’s where I am. I’m 70 and my son will turn 45 this year and I still struggle/wrestle with whether he needs to know the details. I know he’s 45 but my heart and mind still want to protect him as though he was still 8. Follow your intuitive voice. It’s been a good teacher and guide so far. Sending light and love as you continue your journey!
I am so sorry you had to go through that. I can see why the memory still causes you pain.
Thank you. Yes, life is full of its pain, both small and large. That's why we write, as a way to not only cope, but also to perhaps turn life's pain into something beautiful to share. But some pieces are meant only for the author's eyes.
My writings reflect the privacy of the time in the early morning when I feel closest to God
My writings reflect the privacy of the subway where hundreds of us gather and still my unconscious self can not be seen but it loves to come through my hand
My writings reflect the privacy of walking alone through Central Park or seeing a play ( many) by myself
My writings reflect the privacy of my learning after I listen and speak to what I have learned and then sit and ponder all alone
My journal is scattered in many books, in many places including here in my phone where pieces are often sent to friends.It is a memory of who I am in my privacy and who I have become publicly.
I told my children for ages, don’t look for journals filled with wisdom and my wistful thoughts on life after I am gone because you’ll only find lists, list upon list upon list. You’ll know what I did on September 16, 2013 while trying to reign in my unbroken life. And then leukemia. Now I have journals and I see from your missive this morning that in my journals I have been documenting my life examined, not just done. Two weeks ago I relapsed, I am wondering now, and I already know the immediate answer “did I not dig enough?” So I’ll write today. I have a “good cancer” treatable-incurable. It doesn’t mean I cannot be healed. Journaling is the first layer of triage for me.
Sending you love in this next phase, Kate ❤️
"Journal is the first layer of triage for me." I love that so very much. Holding you in my prayers -- may you go from strength to strength in this next phase.
Kate: May courage and fortitude be companions as you wrestle with the travel ahead. Lots of love and light.
Hmmmm. I turn to sound, to music as my journal keeping. I compose almost every day. The first tone is for me opening a blank journal page. I never know what is about to occur. I am growing to trust that this process is a roadmap into my inner landscape. I wait for a title to announce itself. I know all too well that I can’t “think up” a title. The music itself will inform me. What life is asking of me at that moment will arrive as the music and the title. This is my form of journalling.🏮
I love hearing about journaling in other genres so much!
David … This is lovely 💜 So many ways to express oneself. For me, listening to music cuts through the unneeded words resonating the truth. How amazing that you journal this way!
Grace, I found grace and unflinching honesty in Life Interrupted way back-- and like bobbing for apples I kept looking for you and others brought along. Honestly, it is such a relief to be amongst us traveling on. My journals are usually public, as in loosening boulders others can as well. I love writing on poles like in the Berlin that I so lived-- Ironically Klaus Kinsky was a traveling poet, screaming (I don't know what) yet profound. The storytellers of Morocco- and yes lives interrupted and rebirthed sometimes. This week's share is so special, it is cultivating in my heart. Cheers Suleika-- a week to come is blooming- and we will be with you all the way home.
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I’ll never forget the time when an artist and writer - my parents’ friend who became my mentor for both - saw that I left my journals, aka “diaries” at the time, open on my desk. I was 10 and had no idea they were supposed to be private.
That has forever influenced my understanding of writing and truth.
Only true writing is worth reading, but it’s also the hardest to do and lay open.
So lovely ....
What has been hardest for me to send someone my writings only to learn that he doesn’t understand is that it is a piece of my heart that I have written to him! ( and he doesn’t like the format!!!)lol that was quite the lesson!
Awhile back my husband was wondering when my hyper vigilance took root, or when my higher intense anxiety levels slithered in to my life, our life? When had the disruption began to distort, my, our peace of mind? At times, I wondered if I was going crazy. He thought it was Covid. I suggested it might be unresolved grief with the death of our dear daughter Sara at the young age of 26, almost 25 years ago.
Curious, I went searching.
As an avid journal keeper since teenhood, I headed to the attic of our log home (which is nestled against the foothills of the BC Coastal Mountains) to delve into the dusty cardboard boxes bulging with my journals - the encyclopedia of my life- the Keeper of my Secrets, Dreams, Hopes, Heartaches, Joys and Worries.
For hours I huddled in the safety of the tight attic space consuming pages and pages of cursive writing.
Words and moments leapt out at me soothing my questing mind, worry and self doubts. I actually laughed out loud. Relief rushed through me.
I wasn’t going crazy. I wasn’t suppressing grief or reliving the horrid challenges of Covid. Anxiety has been a part of my life in one form or another - like forever. It kept me safe from imagined or real threats. Grizzlies, a rifle toting crazy neighbour and a deadly virus. And, it also allowed my creative imagination to run wild, the main driver for my successful work in the theatre and music industry.
Anxiety was my friend. It was not a bad thing. It was something I have lived with for years and didn’t even know it. I gathered up an armful of journals and hurried back downstairs to spread them out in-front of my husband. “Grab a cup of coffee”, I told him, “I have something exciting to share with you.”
The Isolation Journals community is a living, breathing therapy group filled with patience, compassion and grace. It is a lifeline connecting our loving and sometimes, shattered hearts, from around the world. It continues to be the heartbeat and the glue of life for any of us brave enough to be curious, to quest for the answers yet known.
Thank you, Suleika for inviting us in to your kaleidoscope world of wonder, love and joy. Best wishes for your Book tour. See you Monday night.