It was April 15, 2021 that I wrote and published my first blog post on here. I called it, ‘The Cheapest Form of Self Care,’ referring to the health benefits of journalling. It began with a confession:
‘It’s fair to say that diaries have never really been my ‘thing’.’
Oh, I liked the idea of regular creative introspection, no doubt about that.
I envied those ‘arty types’ who could fill daybooks and scrapbooks with creativity, beauty and insight. I also admired their commitment … while quietly accepting that ‘commitment‘ didn’t feature highly in my own vocabulary. I was a planner, not a do-er; a starter, not a finisher.
And yet… here I am, with this – my 100th blog post!
IT WAS TO fill a void that I began this blog in 2021. Back then, I’d recently walked away from a church community that no longer felt like home. I’d abandoned a prayer journal that I’d hoped would ground me. I was searching for something—structure, expression, maybe even healing.
In that inaugural post I quoted a New York Times article that called journaling ‘the cheapest form of self-care,’ and that line lit a small spark in me. Something about the idea that emotional healing could be accessible, affordable and achievable, and in a manner that gave me a measure of control, made me want to give it a try.
What I didn’t know then was just how true those words would prove to be.
This blog – my own ‘journal’ of sorts – has seen me through a lot. But most recently, it’s held me through something I never expected to write about: a life-changing experience. One that I have chronicled on here in the recent submission, ‘The Raven.’
It was October, 2023.
I finally came undone. The systems I had in place failed. The parts of myself I thought were reliable crumbled. It was lonely and terrifying – and once again, writing found me.
Out of my mind’s disarray, writing gave shape to what was otherwise formless. It didn’t solve anything, but it soothed, reminding me I was still here. That I still possessed a voice, and could use it. That I could make sense of something—if only for a moment.
‘Fake it ‘til you make it,’ say some mental health gurus, suggesting that I and others in the same boat adopt a pretense of ‘feeling fine,’ pushing through mental barriers until everything is hunky-dory. A cool cliche, maybe, but in the case of depression and anxiety, it’s bad advice.
So, instead of blagging through it, I blogged. I simply opened a blank page and poured out the noise.
In my very first post, I had said:
‘I have no doubt that regular self-expression will be immensely beneficial to me in many ways – and possibly in ways I can’t yet imagine.’
How prophetic was that!
As I sat to write that first post I could never have imagined what was waiting for me two years down the line.
Nor could I have known that 100 posts later, I’d be writing from the other side of a breakdown, perhaps more grounded than I was before. Not because I’ve returned to who I was, but because I’ve grown into who I actually am—someone who knows that surviving isn’t always loud or heroic. Sometimes, it’s just showing up and being true.
So, to the person I was back then, I say this:
‘You were right. Writing has been beneficial. In ways you couldn’t have dreamed.’
And to anyone reading this now who may be experiencing their own unravelling, I suggest that you … :
Not because writing will fix you. But because it will hold you. Hold you until time, the Universe and your own inherent strength work their healing magic.
And because your words deserve space, have value and so do you.
Thank you for reading. Thanks for commenting. You’ve helped me stay tethered to myself. Still here. Still writing.
RAVEN MOON 