I believe in the power of writing—but I didn’t expect that opening one old purple notebook would send me on a path of healing through journaling. This post is about revisiting an old journal, confronting the ghosts inside it, and discovering how much of myself I’d forgotten. And maybe, how much I’m finally ready to reclaim.
Why Healing Through Journaling Brought Me to the Garage Today
I’m on a mission. I won’t let fear hold me back—not in this small, significant moment.
Or maybe this is the most significant moment of my adult life.
I grab my keys—almost a habit after a year and a half in this apartment we call Oceanside. I admire my neighbor’s plants as I walk by. She placed a new tree below her kitchen window. I like it. That one little part of the walkway feels more welcoming now.
I round the corner, pull the heavy door open, and head down three flights of steps to the garage.
The air feels eerie down here.
Quieter than usual.
Probably because I usually walk through with headphones in—or with someone else.
I pull down one bin. It’s super heavy. I open it, and nostalgia floods me. Right on top sits a poster—a decorative one with my birth details. A relic I’ve held onto all these years. And there’s a painting I did in high school. One I still feel proud of today. I don’t usually think of myself as a painter—until I see that one painting.
But this isn’t the right bin.
I put it back, barely able to lift it—a reminder I really need to start a lifting program.
I scan the tags on the surrounding bins more closely. Then I find it. I know this is the one. I lift it and feel rewarded—it’s light. Another sign I chose right this time.
I open it to reveal an organized row of old journals—a little dusty, a little smelly.
I salvaged these some years ago with yellow rubber gloves and lots of Clorox. I’m glad I did.
These old journals hold the keys to so many of my questions. Especially this question—the one that’s burned in me for so many years.
I expect to find my final answer somewhere here.
Thumbing through the books with just two fingers. I still don’t like to touch them too much.
And then I find what I came for.
A purple composition notebook.
What I Found Through Journaling Took Me Back to 2003
It covers parts of my life from 2003 to 2005. It opens with my relationship with my high school boyfriend, follows our break-up, my new job, the people I met. And by the end, I’m trying to move on from him. From Cory. I’m working at Pizza Hut. I’m questioning my religion, trying to be a good Christian—and pushing against it at the same time.
I stare at the cover. So much life—and so much healing—lives between those pages. Maybe—just maybe—I can finally… I don’t know.
Find myself.
Find my voice.
Open that box and finally let it go.
Let the mystery stop defining me.
Healing Through Journaling Means Facing the Voice I Lost
I’ve been a mystery to myself for so long. I blame religion—the idea that God matters more than my own well-being. My voice. My autonomy.
I always tried to change parts of me for God. Or rather, for God’s people.
This journal feels thick. Looks thick, too. Extra papers, some taped and some not, fall between the pages. It’s thicker now than when I got it.
I doodled all over the cover—names, moments, nonsense that only makes sense to me.
I wrote words and phrases that mean nothing to anyone else but me—and a few select players from that time in my life. Every term gives me a surge of nostalgia.
I ♥ Tyler. My first love.
Lester and James Dean. Inside jokes.
“Gay,” because I made my first gay friend.
Sweet 16—I think I threw my own b-day.
China man: what he took, what he did.
Jessica Samson. Me.
“I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing.” Aerosmith. I love that song.
Purple book in hand, I run back up to Oceanside.
I sit on my couch, out on my balcony. I thumb through the pages. The memories rise up like purple ghosts from the grave.
It doesn’t take me long to understand the timeline.
Time to find what I came for.
I take my time, dog-earing the entries, skimming each page until a word or phrase catches my eye.
I read with distance, like I’m reading someone else’s book. Someone else’s words.
I struggle to accept that.
And so—writing about it feels hard.
Did this stir something in you?
I’m not here to preach or teach—I’m just sharing what’s real.
If you’ve ever opened an old journal and felt your heart crack open, I’d love to know.
Leave a comment below or message me on Instagram: @jessicaleighbiles—let’s talk about it.
