I used to lug around a box of all my journals that dated back to the 3rd grade. Every time I moved, the journals came with me, a literal and metaphorical weight of the past on my shoulders. I guarded memories, mistakes, and narratives like an encyclopedia of my life, holding a false notion that these would become a historical record of my life someday.

As I picked up yet another stack of journals from my childhood home to add to the files, it dawned on me that I didn’t even want them. Flipping through an old journal, I felt helpless, seeing situations from the perspective of who I grew to be, with no way to console was who I was then. Reflecting on the memories held in hundreds of pages of writing, I knew that all the lessons I would ever learn from my past have already become part of my psyche. Revisiting my old thought process only muddied the water, as I had adopted a more healthy view of my past. So what the heck was I dragging around all these journals for?

I had my big burn. Years of journals heaped in a bonfire, thanked for their pages which allowed me to process, grieve, reminisce. I let them turn to smoke.

Since then, I have noticed incredible differences in the way I relate to my journaling practice. The most immediate and profound change is that writing with the knowledge the words will never be read by me or anyone else gives me complete freedom. There is no need to finish thoughts, provide context, justify anything, even spell correctly. I can write down exactly what needs to be purged from my brain and processed on paper. It becomes an act of meditative brain dumping, rather than narrative storytelling. This has enabled major creative breakthroughs and brutal honestly with myself. I write to write. Period.

Secondly, I journal more. Without the pressure to write cohesively, I can pick up my journal for any reason at all, for any length at all, and jump right into what needs to be processed. There is no “playing catch up” with my journal. It exists as an unbiased vacuum to suck up thoughts and feelings, and I go to it often.

For me, letting go of my journals is an act of healing that is done whenever I reach the end of the one I am writing in. I find that I go to my journal when things get tough, not when things are great, so letting go of the painful or shameful times acts as a symbol of letting go of the past to be more wholly in the present. It is a moment to reflect and face the future clearheaded, without any negativity bogging me down.

What I love most about this method is that it allows for an evolving narrative of my life. I am able to change how I view my past based on how it has brought me to my present. I hold my memories in my head, where they can be processed and reprocessed as my life unfolds. I do not find it useful to revisit them from the static perspective of the moment when they were recorded in my journal years past. I want to be able to grow from my experiences, not just carry them with me.

Now, I want to provide the caveat that I of course see value in holding onto travel journals, special notes, and family picture albums which record the things you want to hold onto and pass down. I will forever drag around a couple of boxes of memorabilia from my past that I cherish. But my journals are entirely out of that category.

Depending how you use your journals as a processing tool, this method may or may not be right for you. Some people like to look back on goals they have set or progress they have made. Others just aren’t ready to shed the skin of their past, and that’s okay. Finally, some may be happy with their journaling practice as it stands, and write freely without needing to physically let their journals go.

No matter whether you cherish your journals or would gladly see them go up in smoke, I hope sharing my experience will encourage you to write freely and continue to break out your journal often. Happy writing!