Finding Yourself on the Page
Not all writing has to end up in a book or a blog. In fact, some of the most meaningful words you’ll ever write are the ones no one else will read. Journaling—pouring your thoughts, fears, hopes, and random observations onto the page—is writing, too. And here’s the thing: it might just be the most important kind of writing you ever do.
There’s something about picking up a pencil, feeling the weight of it in your hand, and letting it move across the page. You’re not just writing words; you’re opening a little door. On the other side of that door are parts of yourself you’ve forgotten, truths you’ve buried, memories you didn’t know you still had. And here’s the magic: once you start writing, those parts begin to emerge. They trickle out in sentences, in fragments, in messy scribbles that are only meant for you.
When I sit down with my notebook, I don’t expect anything profound to happen. It’s just me, the paper, and a pencil that probably needs sharpening. But sometimes, without realizing it, I stumble into something extraordinary. A memory rises up, vivid and whole, as if it’s been waiting patiently for me to come find it.
Like the time I remembered my parents helping me deliver newspapers during those brutal Boston winters in the 1970s. Picture this: snow piled high, the air so cold it stings your face, and me, a kid, staring at this six-inch-thick Sunday edition of the Boston Globe wondering how I’m supposed to haul it to every door on my bike. And then my parents, without a word, pack up the station wagon and drive me around, helping me deliver the news. It wasn’t flashy or dramatic—just quiet love, the kind that leaves a mark on you long after the snow melts.
Or the time I wrote The Last Box Score, a story about my childhood at Red Sox games. It wasn’t all true, but the act of writing brought real memories rushing back. The crack of the bat, the smell of hot dogs, the sheer magic of Fenway under the lights. That story came from journaling—just me noodling around, trying to make sense of who I was back then.
And that’s the thing about journaling: it doesn’t have to be perfect or polished or even make sense. It just has to be honest. When you pick up a pencil and write, you’re saying to yourself, I’m here. I’m paying attention. I’m listening.
So, if you’ve ever felt stuck or scattered or like you’re swimming in chaos, try this: grab a notebook. Don’t overthink it—just start. Write about your day, your past, your dreams, or even the weird thing your neighbor said to you last week. Write as if no one will ever read it, because they probably won’t. And that’s the point.
You’ll find yourself in those pages, little by little. Not all at once, but in pieces—some beautiful, some painful, some unexpectedly funny. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll stumble across a moment or a memory that feels like a gift.
Because sometimes, the most meaningful story you can tell is the one you tell yourself.