I consider my first journal entry to be a Tumblr draft I wrote at 14 years old. I remember being vaguely frustrated with my friends, with being a freshman in high school, and with feeling unironically superior to everyone around me (teen angst if you will). In the stairwell of my mom’s old run-down Miami apartment—the paint peeling and the mold accumulating by the second—I took out my phone. Tears in my eyes and cheeks flushed, I began typing a blog post about how incredibly annoying everything and everyone was. I knew I wouldn’t post it, but I just wanted to lift what seemed like the weight of the world off my chest. Putting all my frustration into a Tumblr post also made me feel like I had some kind of control: I could, if I really wanted to, post it and tell my friends to screw all, or I could save it as a draft, hold onto it in case I ever felt like it was worth someone else’s eyes.
Luckily, my anger subsided once I finished writing, and I saved the post as a draft. From that moment on, I created a habit out of what I would now deem journaling. I wrote in my Tumblr drafts every time I had intense emotions, opinions I was too afraid to speak, or ideas I wanted to contemplate in secret. I felt like I was building a world from within myself that also existed outside of me. I was able to process my life through writing, and it helped me with all the raging emotions and confusion of my teenage years. The first person to lay eyes on the details of my first kiss was not a person at all, but rather my drafts. I felt like I had power over my life via recording the most major and minor details of it.
The day I turned away from my Tumblr journal was the day I accidentally posted a draft, and that draft just so happened to include a rather repugnant, word-vomit rant about a close friend of mine (“She’s just like, soooo whatever”). I had gotten so comfortable with the idea of sharing my inner thoughts in my drafts that I forgot about the possibility of them becoming public. Once posted, I quickly deleted the journal entry, but my stomach was in knots, and a wave of guilt tackled me for how ill I had talked about my friend, how hurt she would be if she saw it. From then on, I moved my drafts to a Pages document on my laptop, which I put a passcode on. By the time I graduated high school, my Pages document, which I titled “The Drafts,” had accumulated 250,000 words.
When I started my Bachelor’s degree at the University of Florida, I moved on to pen and paper. Many times I found myself on campus, itching to write and with a dead laptop, so I started scribbling on engineering paper the Reitz would reluctantly give me. This prompted me to buy a notebook, and then another, and then another. I know all too well how cathartic and romantic it is to hold your thoughts and feelings in your hands.
I have since lost the coming-of-age treasure that was The Drafts in the midst of life falling apart and putting itself back together, as it sometimes does. I do, however, have my physical journals from the last 5 years of my life. It is a privilege—and a cringe fest, to re-read them. Know always that if you decide to start journaling, no one can judge what you write but you, and even you shouldn’t judge the contents of your journal. It’s a safe space for you and only you, if that is what you wish.
Now that I’m 24 years old and in graduate school, my intention for journaling changes day by day. Sometimes I journal for emotional processing and release, other times I journal just to have something to look back on. No matter your reason for journaling, and no matter what platform you use, it can serve as a tremendous tool—it is always there whenever you need it. There’s no right or wrong reason to journal; if you have a reason at all, that’s enough to get you started.
Brenna Sheets is a graduate student in Emerson College’s Writing and Publishing M.A. program. She is currently a teacher, specializing in middle school history. Her hobbies include going on long walks, watching bad television, reading, and writing.
