Writing Through Chaos & Clarity
Sometimes, writing is the only thing that makes sense. Not the structured, word-count kind. You know, the stuff you produce when you aim to “sit down and write those words” during a Pomodoro sprint session (yuk). And I’m not talking about the novel draft (write at least 100 words today!), or the necessary blog post (as if you don’t write enough words, you write more words to get people to read the words you’ve already written?).
I’m talking about those words that woke you up in the middle of the night, made you reach for your journal (for you organized ones) or a scrap of paper (for the rest of us). You turn on the light, or the flashlight of your phone and scribble down your midnight thoughts, because they can’t wait until morning. These words? They give away more than you think. Believe me, I know.
I’ve always turned to journaling when my thoughts feel like they’re clawing at each other to escape. I don’t journal to “find out about myself” or to “manifest a better life”, nah, I journal to get some of this stuff out of my head. Sometimes it’s letters from one character to another, sometimes it’s lists of …things, sometimes it’s a scene that I’ll never put in a book, but had to get out of my head. It’s the kind of writing that doesn’t need an audience, just pure, middle of the night, honesty. And despite what Pinterest may say, you don’t need perfect handwriting. Because I don’t. I should have been a doctor with this vicious scrawl.
Here’s how I approach it when life feels like static and I need clarity—or at least a place to scream in cursive, or actually, chicken scratch.
🕯 Ritual #1: Set the stage
No fancy supplies required. Just paper, pen, and some kind of gentle boundary between you and the outside world. You want to use a fancy journal? Go ahead, in fact, I encourage it. I love a good journal…or five. Or does a three hole spiral notebook from the dollar store suit you better? Whatever it is, grab it. Use it.
I light a candle. Sometimes I play soft piano or ambient rain sounds. The soft nicey-nice rain sounds, not the ones that sound like bacon frying.
The point isn’t to perform—it’s to signal to my brain:
It’s safe to speak here. Do it, lady! (if you know, you know)
✍️ Ritual #2: The Unsent Letter
Write to someone (alive, gone, fictional, yourself). Tell them what’s on your mind with no intention of sending it. Write fast, write furiously. Don’t stop until your hand aches.
Some of my best clarity has come from writing to people I’ll never give the letter to. It’s about pulling the thorn and naming the ache. Putting it down on paper, then doing what needs to be done with it: burning it, or hiding it in a drawer for later. Or reading it over with tears in your eyes, nodding with the truth of it all.
🌘 Ritual #3: The Check-In
Three simple prompts I use when I don’t know what to say:
What’s taking up the most space in my head right now?
What do I need more or less of?
Where do I feel stuck—and where do I feel light?
Where do I finally have clarity?
I don’t try to fix anything. I just write it all out, then, maybe burn it all up. Which also helps, if you do it right. Getting it out of my head is half the healing and the other half often follows close behind.
🌕 Why It Matters
Journaling is not about solving things. It’s about showing up and looking at yourself with soft, non-judgmental eyes. It’s about giving yourself that pure grace and forgiving your missteps.
When I write like this, I’m not trying to create art with a capital A. I’m letting the noise drain out, so I can hear myself again. Because I’m sure you know how noisy things can get.
It’s not magic in the dramatic sense. But it’s sacred. And as Billie sang, “Ain’t nobody’s business if I do.”
Try this type of journaling. It might be a little bit dangerous, but it also might be a lot truthful.
📓 A few final thoughts…
You don’t have to journal every day. You don’t have to be poetic. You don’t have to write neatly.
Just show up and be honest. Remember, this is yours, not someone else’s.
Light the candle, pick up the pen, and get started.
With softness, ink, and much grace,
Dahlia
