That Man Tried to Read My Journal....

I was on my way back from Cambridge after a long weekend at the HGSE open house. My dad and I made our way (slowly) through the airport metal detector and waited on the other side to see if our bags made the cut. Per usual, my bag was swept to the opposite side of the glass where it needed ‘further inspection.”

I know the drill. So I walked over to where the TSA agent takes my tray and watched as he started to go through my bag.

This guy is nice. He starts to chat with me about my Harvard sweater as he sweeps through my belongings. It’s always a nice surprise when they treat you like a human and not an eternal threat with 3.7 ounces too much of lotion in your bag, so I politely chat back.

Then he grabs my journal and my smile drops.

He starts to open the pages and leaf through them looking for…...what?? I really don’t know.

He puts it back in my bag and I’m relieved.

Now listen, I have been pat down and poked and prodded and swabbed by TSA plenty of time. Once my mom even got stopped because the Adobo she was carrying looked "suspicious." Why was this the incident that made my heart race? More than the discomfort of being patted down in delicate areas, I didn’t want this man reading my journal! How crazy is that???

It’s personal

That’s just it. This thing is personal. It’s everything. It’s the ONE place where I speak with NO fear.

Since I was first able to write, my journals have been sacred spaces of freedom that I hold closer to my heart than almost anything else. They are mine. Because while I haven’t always had a blog or a place to share my views of the world, I’ve always had views and opinions and questions and ideas. All things I NEED to write down.

That’s how my brain works. And it makes me feel good.

Whenever I have friends who say, “I just have so much on my mind,” I always respond “write it down.”

I like to imagine thoughts like the whispy fog from Dumbledore's wand into the “pensieve”.... only I place them wherever there is paper.

At the risk of sounding dramatic, which I clearly am, without journaling, I am lost. For real. When I don’t get a chance to write my words and get ideas out, they just float in my head taking up space.

So I have to do it

Like a great teacher scaffolds and builds their lesson, journaling is the precursor I have to take before most action.

And it feels good.

But I consider myself lucky. I picked up journaling on my own from a young age. Some of us are still searching for that cathartic activity to make sense of the wispy fog rolling around in our minds.  

If that’s you, cool. I’ve been there. And my advice? Write it down.

You don’t need a fancy notebook to start. Just pick up an old spiral and write. Or draw, whatever gets you flowing….

And let me know what you think on the other side.

It just might make you feel good too.

• Sabrina