How Journaling Helped Me Believe My Story & Love Myself

I have to admit...I've been sitting on a draft of this blog post about my story for over a month now, resisting my next steps. 

I find myself deeply aware of the vulnerability I feel in sharing my story with you, even in this brief and contained way.  There's likely many variables that go into my hesitancy to publish this post, but my sense is that the biggest contributor to my trepidation is the fact that I didn't believe my own story for most of my life.  It's still fairly new for me to tell this (honest) version of my story to others, which makes it feel unknown and risky and a bit nerve-wracking.

But I've learned the difference between the discomfort that says "run the other direction!" and the discomfort that says "you're ready to overcome your fear"--and I know this discomfort that I feel right now is the "overcome your fear" kind. 

So I'm taking a deep breath...and moving forward....now.    

Up until several years ago, I bought into a false narrative about my life that protected me from emotional pain, relational tensions, and cognitive dissonance.  I told myself and others what had been told to me--that I came from a good middle-class Christian family, had a sheltered childhood, and knew nothing of trauma or genuine adversity.  I believed I was the person other people thought I was--brave, strong, independent, competent, likeable, high-achieving.  It felt good to see myself and my life experiences through this lens.

But then I became a therapist...and that ruined everything (in the best way possible). 

Some people enter therapy training programs to heal themselves and fix their problems, but that wasn't me.  I truly believed I was just interested in psychology and wanted to be helpful to others; I didn't see myself as being in need of healing or possessing problems that needed fixing. 

By the time I graduated, though, something was beginning to shift.  The book knowledge I gained in the classroom called my attention to parts of my life I'd ignored or dismissed, but what really did me in were my (amazing, courageous, wise) clients.  

As I listened to their stories and their dreams about what they wanted to change in their lives, my clients' words took on new meaning within me.  The words I heard from my therapist chair shook loose memories and understandings of myself that began to rattle around, stirring up new thoughts and feelings, begging for my attention and care.  By the time I graduated from my therapy training program, I was knee deep in psychological rubble--I knew the time had come to sort through it. 

In my confusion and distress, I turned to the trusted friend I'd depended on in the past--my journal.  It had been a long time since I'd put words on a page just for myself, easily three years or more, but I quickly felt right at home as my thoughts tumbled out of me, cohering into sentences and paragraphs that began to capture and contain the chaos within me.
 
As I journaled, everything I believed about myself and my story began to unravel--and a new story began to take shape.  It was simultaneously terrifying and liberating (it still is). 

My supposedly idyllic childhood had actually been complicated, confusing, and stressful--and I'd felt excruciatingly alone as I navigated it all.  Trauma was something I knew intimately, it had wired every fiber of my being from a young age.  The brave, strong, independent parts of myself were qualities I'd depended on to get me through that painful and lonely chapter in my life.  My likeability was actually intense, all-consuming people-pleasing, a skill I'd cultivated to prevent (some of) the melt-downs and rages that had happened in my home.  And my achievements were a substitute for being genuinely seen and understood, trophies I clung to that helped me believe I was worth something because deep down I questioned if I was ever really loved. 

With each word, each page I journaled, I began to see myself with new clarity.  And, with this real me in view, I began to love myself with fresh compassion.  

With a heart that was open to myself, I started letting others see parts of me I'd kept hidden (my flaws, struggles, fears, self-doubts) and this sharing made room for deeper connection.  With a road-map to my past, I was more oriented to my stressors in the present and better able to soothe myself when anxiety threatened to overwhelm me.  With a mind that was grounded in my own priorities, wants, and needs, I started giving myself permission to live the life I really wanted on my own terms, without seeking trophies or accolades or approval from anyone else.

I want you to know, in case you are on a similar journey, that while that may sound beautiful and comforting (and it is!), it often didn't feel that way at the time.  Yes, my journal entries held gems of self-acceptance and even self-appreciation, and these glimpses of an emerging future were so precious to me at the time that I printed these excerpts out and carried them around inside an oversized envelope everywhere I went (I'm serious).  Yes, my journaling often felt cathartic and orienting.  Yes, the words I journaled helped me to take actions that were desperately needed to support and care for myself.    

But those highlights were diamonds in the rough, brief vistas of a promised land during a long and arduous journey.  I often wrestled with myself, questioned myself, even criticized myself in my journaling.  I unearthed and described aspects of my life I'd ignored for good reasons.  I gave passionate voice to gut-wrenching feelings of grief and anger and abandonment. 

Journaling during this time in my life didn't always feel helpful or hopeful--yet those uncomfortable, unsettling, distressing moments with my journal were ultimately such an important part of my transformation.  Learning to be in conversation with the ugliest, harshest parts of myself was essential to learning to treat myself with compassion, kindness, and acceptance.  Naming, believing, and claiming the most difficult parts of my story was central to living with authenticity, self-awareness, and emotional balance. 
  
While journaling continues to serve me and support me in a myriad of ways, the work of believing myself and loving myself is now well underway.  My journal helps me continue that work, but it comes with greater ease now that I've had so much practice traveling these beloved pathways.  My needs are evolving, and the beauty of journaling is that it's evolving right along with me.  

If you're in the process of re-writing your story and believing yourself, I see your courage and tenacity.  I want you to know that no matter how hard it is right now, someday you will look back with such gratitude for the work you are doing right now. 

If you struggle with accepting and loving yourself with all your flaws and human failings, I see your heartache and your longing for a better relationship with yourself.​  I want you to know that a different experience is possible; if you feel a shift, if you notice the beginnings of your unraveling, trust it, get curious about it, open yourself up to a new story about yourself.  

As you just read, journaling was and is powerful for me--and it may be a key to what you need right now, too.  If you've never tried journaling before, my mini-course, Starting Journaling will give you everything you need to get started.  If you've done some journaling and would like to be more intentional about writing toward a better relationship with yourself, my free resource Flourish: Weekly Journal Prompts to Help You Nurture Yourself can guide you. 

Whatever else you may choose to take from my story, I hope these words will shake something loose within you:
You're worth believing.  You're worth loving.  Always.  

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