I write in a journal every night.

Well, I try to write in a journal every night. “Try” being the key word. Saying that I write in a journal every night is somewhat of an aspirational statement. I hope that by saying it, I will end up actually doing it.

Kids say the funniest things. Sometimes, that’s all I write down. These years are only so long, and I don’t want to forget.

But I don’t. I never fulfill the promise. I always screw up. I miss days all over. I work too much. I don’t get done until right before dinner. Then, we eat and put the kids to bed.

At that point, I’m beat so I pour another cup of coffee and get back to work. Then, of course, I forget to write until I am lying in bed, and by that point, it’s too late.

My life is too busy to write every night. And tragically enough, that’s why I should write every night.

To the lighthouse

We all keep a journal for different reasons. I keep one to remember things I don’t want to forget. For some reason, writing down what happened helps me remember.

And even if I can’t recall it right away, after rereading what I wrote down all those years ago, a switch is triggered in my mind, and all of a sudden, the memories come rushing back. All I needed was a little lighthouse to get me to the shore. That’s what my journal is. I’m building little lighthouses on the pages so one day I can find my way back.

Sometimes, I sit at my desk and flip through the pages. I read an entry from years ago. March 20, 2019. That little lighthouse leads me back to that memory hidden in the dark corner of my mind. I’m there again.

Take 10

The next entry on the following page is five months later. My God. Why didn’t I write? What happened? I don’t remember anymore. There are fleeting images and events, but I can’t put a date to them. Was that 2019 or 2018? Or 2020? Where did my memories go?

They are there, I know they are. But I can’t find my way back. I’m lost. Why didn’t I write? Just 10 minutes here and there. That’s all I needed to do. I was too busy.

Kids say the funniest things. I write down a lot of those. Mispronounced words. Hilarious questions. Disturbingly insightful comments that only kids seem to make because they have no filter and their minds are free to wonder about anything they choose.

Sometimes, that’s all I write down. These years are only so long, and I don’t want to forget.

Built to spill

A journal isn’t only about documentation of memories for future reference. There’s something therapeutic about writing it down. Take a pen and paper out of the top drawer. Sit there, and write. Spill it all out. Don’t hold back. There’s no one watching. No one listening. You can be who you are. Don’t be afraid.

Sometimes, we need to get something out. Some people like to talk things out. But no one ever tells everything. We all keep the most tender parts hidden. But writing in that paper journal is our chance to bleed it out of us.

And after we do it, we feel better in some way. It’s therapeutic. We take part of our heart, put it onto paper, then close the cover, and slide it back in the bottom drawer. There we go. Take a deep breath, exhale.

The pen is mightier

Writing it all down isn’t like typing in some word processing program, either. It’s different. Yes, it takes longer, but that’s not really it. It’s that it’s personal. Truly personal.

You hold the pen against the paper. These things are real physical things you are grabbing with your hand. You write the words in the handwriting that is only yours. You yourself are spilled all over the open journal.

One day when you die and someone finds what you wrote, they will know it is yours by the handwriting that died with you. Those pages remain. They linger. Those pages of confession hang around after we are gone. Unless we burn them, of course. And that’s OK, too. The act of writing itself is enough.

It’s a little old-timey, in truth. It’s a bit of a lost practice. Now, we are either all so busy, don’t want to be old-fashioned, or think our endless stream of photos on our smartphones do the trick. They don’t.

It doesn’t really make sense why they don’t; a picture is worth a 1,000 words, right? But they don’t. The private journal — offline, away from the cloud, handwritten, secret. Something human and so personal. Something that can’t live on the internet.

There is no irony in your journal, no hot take, no condescension. It’s you. Truly you and nothing else. In our world of performative irreverence, the mask of social media is always tied on tight; a journal is a last stand of honesty. A catalog and a memorial of who we really are, deep down with nowhere left to hide.

I need to write in my journal more.