journaling is a gardening practice

planting seeds on pages, stationary and prompts

I used to approach journaling with the same rigidity I applied to most things—convinced there was a correct way to do it, that I had to arrive at some grand realization each time I put pen to paper. I resented how long it took me to begin, how I scavenged Pinterest for prompts like a student desperate for answers. I hated how rehearsed my words felt, how I strained to be profound, only to read them back and feel nothing.

For a long time, my pages were a mess—jagged, inconsolable, filled with thoughts I didn’t know how to untangle. But maybe that was the point? A record of disarray, proof that I had once been here, stumbling through it. Rereading my journals from 2020-2022 gives me an ick in the most visceral way, but I keep them anyway. One day, when I’m older, I’ll pull them out from whatever dusty shoebox I’ve buried them in and laugh at how frenzied and desperate I was to get things right. But what is right, really.

Somewhere along the way, my perspective on journaling shifted. Someone once told me to think of my thoughts as seeds in the garden of my mind—some need watering, some need uprooting. I loved that idea.

Ultimately, we are the gardeners of our inner sanctuaries, tending to what we let in and let go. Journaling is like that. Or a good vessel for that. It is both the soil and the shovel. Through it, I’ve learned to be mindful of which thoughts I’m nurturing, which patterns need reworking, and which beliefs aren’t serving me anymore. Like changing the brand of fertilizer, if you will. Some things are best uprooted before they strangle the whole garden.

Writing is an act of remembering, but also of release. I’ve learned to write even when I don’t have the right words, even when the sentences come out jagged and raw. I write because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t see myself clearly. I wouldn’t catch the patterns, the quiet shifts, the coping mechanisms that will one day return to haunt me if left unexamined. It just means they grow wild in the background until I’m forced to confront them later. Because in nature, nothing exists alone and in writing, I don’t either.

And if nothing else, I just love notebooks. A deep, obsessive kind of love. I was the kid who dragged my mom to Staples and insisted I needed every spiral-bound journal, every binder tab, every mechanical pencil in sight. I never took my homework seriously, but binders? A deep devotion.

Now, I hoard journals like relics. Some are meant for deep reflection, others for fleeting thoughts, unfinished poems, sketches on trains. The Moleskine Classic Hardcover remains my essential—smooth paper, sturdy binding, no-frills. The pocket-sized version, in red, is reserved for walking ideas. A collection of thoughts, tiny notes I leave in the margins of my days.

There’s something delicious about opening a fresh notebook, about the promise of blank pages waiting to hold whatever needs to be said. So if you’re unsure where to start, just start small. Scribble nonsense. Doodle in the margins. Write down the last sentence you overheard at a coffee shop. It doesn’t have to be profound, only true.

Because in the end, that’s all we’re doing—documenting the overgrown gardens of our minds, clearing a path, making space for whatever comes next.

Journals I swear by:

First, a Moleskine Classic Hardcover Notebook is essential. I’ve tried many others but the paper quality and everything about the classic is incomparable. The mini pocket size is also lovely—I have the red one.

Journals I’ve had and loved:

A journal inspired by Elena Gilbert – Yes, this was a direct result of watching The Vampire Diaries. No regrets.

Louise Carmen Custom Notebook – Beautiful, leather-bound, designed for travel diaries. It was wildly expensive, so I probably wouldn’t buy it again, but I do love that it will last forever.

In my pen pouch:

Muji 0.5mm – Perfect weight, perfect glide.

Micron Fineliner Pens – I use these for drawing, doodling, or when I want my thoughts to look prettier than they are.

Red leather pencil pouch – An Amazon find that goes everywhere with me.

A few prompts I love:

1. Are you taking enough risks in your life? Would you like to change your relationship to risk? If so, how?

2. What is a made-up rule about your life that you are applying to yourself? How has this held you back and how might you change it?

3. Write an apology to yourself for a time you treated yourself poorly. Remember—a good apology should feature an acknowledgment of what happened, how it made you feel, and how you will do better in the future.

4. If your recent tears could talk, what are they trying to tell you?

5. Invent your own planet. Draw a rough sketch of the planet and its inhabitants. How is it different than Earth?

From my last completed notebook:

I don’t think I like my twenties very much.

I’m grateful, I really am. And yet, I find myself constantly unsettled—riding this ambiguous, in-between wave where everything feels both full and lacking at the same time. I wake up, drink my water, take my Wellbutrin. I debate whether to push my body at the gym at 5:30 a.m. or let myself rest, but I always go. My body feels strong one day, sluggish the next. And when it’s sluggish, I assume something is wrong with me. That’s a theme.

I pack my lunch, making sure I get enough protein because that’s what we all seem to be fixated on. I sit at my desk in a room with no windows, where my creativity has nowhere to go. I have ideas banging at every door in my mind, but by the time I get home, they’ve quieted down, faded into something less exciting. I love my apartment—it’s warm, cozy, full of things I love. But sometimes, I wish there was someone else in it. I miss my friends, but I also love living alone. That contradiction is another theme.

I walk my neighborhood at dusk, stretching my legs, sometimes bringing a joint with me. I scroll through Instagram, hate it, put my phone down—then pick it up again seven minutes later to see the same things. Why did I do that?

I knit. I drink tea. I open my windows even when it’s too cold because I like the crisp air. I get into bed, cricket my feet, and finally feel like myself again.

Some days are lovely. Some are a drag. Waves of inspiration hit, and sometimes they don’t. I think about a side hustle. I think about quitting my job. I think about moving somewhere new, about living off the land, about finding some kind of certainty in the uncertainty.

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Right now, I don’t have answers. I just have pages. I journal because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t see myself—I wouldn’t recognize the patterns, the gaps, the way I’m coping, the way I’m growing. I write it all down because even the sad parts deserve a place. Even the parts I don’t want to admit. Because if we don’t plant seeds and pull weeds, nothing new can grow.

Journaling is a gardening practice—one that’s messy, sometimes painful, sometimes exhilarating. It’s a way to keep track of the things that might not make sense now but will one day. And if you don’t already have a journal, maybe this is your sign to start.