I Read 20 Years of Journals and Found the Same Sentence on Every Page

Different stories, different years, different handwriting. But always the same ache underneath.

I pulled the box down from the closet last spring.

Twenty years of journals. Maybe more. Leather-bound ones, spiral notebooks, those fancy ones with gilt edges I bought myself as gifts.

I thought I was being a good spiritual student all those years. Processing. Reflecting. Doing the work.

I opened the first one. Then the second. Then the tenth.

And in every single one, no matter what I was writing about, the same truth kept repeating itself:

I wanted to be acknowledged.
I wanted to be wanted.
I wanted to be loved.

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Different words. Different stories. Different decades.

But always—always—the same ache underneath.

The names changed. The circumstances shifted. The handwriting got shakier as the years went on.

But the longing? Identical.

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That’s when I knew:

I wasn’t writing to understand myself.

I was writing to be heard by someone who wasn’t there.

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For twenty years, I showed up to the page like it was a witness. Like if I wrote it down clearly enough, beautifully enough, honestly enough—someone would finally see me.

Not just see the words.

See me.

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But here’s the thing about journaling to be witnessed:

You never get the response you’re waiting for.

The page doesn’t write back.
It doesn’t say, “I see you. You matter. You’re enough.”

So you keep writing. Keep circling. Keep trying to earn the acknowledgment that only you can give yourself.

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I sat on the floor of my closet with twenty years of my own voice staring back at me.

And I felt two things at once:

Grief. For all those years I spent seeking outside validation instead of building it from within.

And relief. Because I finally saw the pattern. And I could stop.

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I don’t journal anymore.

Not because journaling is bad.
Not because it doesn’t work for others.

But because for me, it became a loop.

A place to rehearse the ache instead of releasing it.

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So what do I do now instead?

I live in the now.

Not the “what happened yesterday” or “what I hope will happen tomorrow.”

Just... now.

Some mornings I sit with my coffee and look out the window until something stirs.

Some mornings I breathe. Four counts in. Four counts hold. Six counts out.

Some mornings I paint without thinking. Without journaling about what it means.

And sometimes... nothing stirs. And that’s okay too.

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Because here’s what I learned from those twenty years of journals:

I don’t need to process my life to live it.

I don’t need to witness myself on the page to know I exist.

I don’t need to write my way to worthiness.

I just need to be here. Fully. Without needing it to mean something.

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If you’ve got boxes of journals in your closet—or decades of any practice that’s starting to feel like a loop instead of liberation—

Maybe it’s time to ask:

Am I doing this to understand myself?

Or am I doing this to be seen by someone who isn’t looking?

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You don’t owe anyone your seeking.
Not even the page.

You’re allowed to just... be.

Without documenting it.
Without processing it.
Without proving you did the work.

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Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is stop.

Stop writing.
Stop analyzing.
Stop performing your own transformation.

And just live.

P.S.
If you’re in a season of clearing space and starting again, I created a guide called Refoundation.

✅ Step-by-step prompts to uncover what no longer fits
✅ Reflection pages that reconnect you to what still lights you up
✅ A daily practice plan to rebuild from soul, not survival
✅ Printable “Reclaiming” templates to track your transformation

It’s quiet. It’s simple. It’s not a ritual.
Just a place to begin.

Paid subscribers who would like a copy can send me a message, and I’ll send one straight away—no cost.

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