Wednesday, April 1, 2020 // The Statement
2B
Managing Statement Editor
Magdalena Mihaylova
Deputy Editors
Emily Stillman
Marisa Wright
Associate Editor
Reece Meyhoefer
Designers
Liz Bigham
Kate Glad
Copy Editors
Madison Gagne
Sadia Jiban
Photo Editor
Keemya Esmael
Editor in Chief
Elizabeth Lawrence
Managing Editor
Erin White
B
y the Thursday of our first week
of remote classes, I was already
bored out of my mind. Time
seemed no longer relevant; My days weren’t
broken up by things like club meetings,
office hours and trips to the dining hall. My
classes were still being held at their original
times, but everything else had abruptly
ended. At first, I found myself filling the
empty space with Netflix and YouTube
videos, but they too lost their color quickly.
One afternoon, out of sheer boredom,
I decided to go through the bookshelf in
my bedroom to see if I could find anything
interesting to read. I started from the
bottom shelf, which had collected a slight
amount of dust since I left for college last
fall. It was mostly full of books I’d read when
I was younger, a large majority of them
either The Boxcar Children or Magic Tree
House. For some time, I sat there, studying
the remnants of my childhood until I came
across a stack of brightly colored spiral-
bound notebooks — my old journals.
I first started journaling when I was little.
My parents had encouraged me to write so
I could improve my handwriting. One of
my first notebooks dates as early as 2005,
which means I would have been around age
five. I wrote very simply — I listed how I
was feeling at the time of writing and why,
like “Today is Monday and I feel happy!” —
accompanied by a self-drawn “Sketch of
the Day.” In other entries, I decided not to
write about myself; In a rainbow-colored
notebook from 2008, I’d chosen to write
about a cool glitter pen I’d found. A couple
pages later, I told a story about a made-up
princess.
My journal entries varied in length, too.
For example, one simply reads, “In a few
days it will be my birthday!” while an entry
a few pages before it reads, “Dear Diary, I
am bored!” and then details exactly why for
three whole pages.
Regardless of the length or simplicity of
the entries in my journals, it was clear that
journaling was something I enjoyed doing.
In many of the notebooks, there seemed to
be an entry for nearly every day. Without
fail, I had taken the time out of my day to
write, reflect or say whatever else I wanted.
By the sixth grade, with tennis and
orchestra keeping me busy, I was starting
to fall out of practice,
and
by
high
school,
I’d dropped it entirely,
with most of my time
devoted to academics and
extracurriculars.
While
my life was certainly full
of more things I could’ve
written about or worked
through
—
crushes,
failed
assignments,
disagreements
with
friends — it felt like there
was just no time. My
social life filled the gaps
when I might’ve had time
to write, and without my
journals, I found myself
feeling overwhelmed at
times.
Not only did I yearn
for the ability to write
down and reflect on my
thoughts but I also missed
the sheer art of journaling.
To me, there had always
been something relaxing in the act: It was
comforting to write with a nice pen and see
my thoughts unfolded before me in ink.
Toward the latter half of high school, I
attempted to restart my habit, a big motivator
being the rise of the self-care movement.
Journaling, thanks to its potential ment
al and physical health benefits, became a
staple of self-care — and in the midst of it all,
the bullet journal surged to popularity.
It’s very easy to see the appeal of bullet
journaling, a practice in which one numbers
their journal pages, creates an index and
organizes their tasks, calendars and weekly
logs from there. With one quick search on
Google Images, you’re faced with a plethora
of notebook pages covered in beautiful
cursive letters, neatly written to-do lists
and weekly schedules. In my eyes, the sheer
amount of organization that went into a
single bullet journal was both aesthetically
pleasing and something to be envied.
But, even after I did some research, which
basically consisted of me skimming through
articles and watching bullet journal setup
videos on YouTube, I never successfully
started my own bullet journal. While I
definitely wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself
to actually plan a whole notebook out. To be
honest, I think I found the “aesthetic” part
of bullet journaling too intimidating, too
much of a commitment.
Instead,
I
tried
another
method:
digital journaling. After typing those two
words into my search bar, I came upon
an article titled, “Think you’re too busy to
journal? These apps let you do it on the go,”
which detailed a list of five journal apps for
iOS and Android.
Journaling apps seemed like the perfect
solution to everything I wanted — I wouldn’t
have to set anything up if an app already did
it for me. It seemed more efficient. An app on
a phone, after all, is the epitome of efficiency.
I could already see myself writing entries as
I waited for orchestra practice to start.
After trying several of the apps suggested
in the article, I still wasn’t satisfied. Typing
away on a phone, while quick and easy,
didn’t feel the same as journaling. Not only
was it a bit strange to not have a physical
journal to write in, but it completely lacked
the intimacy of handwriting. As far as I
know, there is no digital way of accurately
recreating the feeling of pressing pen to
paper.
Until I came across my old notebooks, I
hadn’t thought about journaling in a while.
As I sat in my bedroom flipping through
pages, home from college two months early
because of a global pandemic, I realized
that now more than ever would be the best
opportunity for me to start again. In the
middle of this sudden, chaotic crisis, writing
down my feelings and thoughts could be
one of the best ways to mentally process the
situation we’re all experiencing.
Now, a new notebook sits on my bedside
table. It’s a far cry from the colorful
notebooks of my childhood: It’s a pale cream
color with an exposed spine and softcover.
I started it very recently. Its organization
is practically nothing compared to a bullet
journal. Instead, most of its entries are a
stream of consciousness — all of my joys
and sorrows bundled together in threaded
binding.
Each time I pick up the notebook, its
pages still mostly empty, I feel no pressure
to draw in colorful headers or write in neat,
organized lines. I just write, with a simple
black pen, and let the thoughts tumble from
my brain and onto the page.
statement
THE MICHIGAN DAILY | APRIL 1, 2020
BY CHELSEA PADILLA, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
Journaling in a crisis
ILLUSTRATION BY NOAH FINER