Writing in my journal must feel like lighting a cigarette

My most impactful journal entries by far

(from my red journal & bedside thoughts)

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I have a friend whom I oddly only meet when both of us are trying to crawl out from the depths of hell. For her, lighting a cigarette at a random sari-sari store or sidewalk kiosk helps her tolerate the burn. I always find myself joining her until she finishes a stick, though I don’t light one myself. I simply share the comfort of watching her from a decent distance.

Perhaps writing in my journal feels like lighting a cigarette. Every puff blown is akin to the ink poured, justifying every surge of emotions that makes my body vulnerable.

In my 22 years, I have always kept a notebook with me. I like to think that every notebook I own is an extension of my being. I write down the events of the past, what in the present stirs so much within me, and the itching anxiety my skin feels for the future. I also explore the person I have failed to become, which makes this version of me on the pages both good and terrible.

In January of last year, I bought a red notebook and made a vow to myself to make a conscious effort to write more for two reasons: to improve how I play with words and to have something tangible as a keepsake of my 20s. Although I do not write every day, I often find myself reaching for this very notebook when life calls for it.

To commemorate this little practice, here are excerpts from my favorite journal entries – moments of both my wins and losses so far:

Oftentimes, I write about self-doubt. I try to welcome growth so fully that I sometimes fail to shake the self-destructive thoughts that come with it. I have pages upon pages of fear about not making it because writing is the only way I know how to let it go.

17th of October, 2024
Self-doubt remains an undefeated enemy to me. Nothing seems more difficult than convincing yourself to recognize your own potential. Recently, an opportunity presented itself that made me shiver a bit. Am I skilled enough for it? How can it be mine when I am far from being a natural?

2nd of August, 2024
There’s this growing anxiety caged in my body that’s slowly letting loose to remind me that adulthood is coming, and it is afraid I might not make it.

Growing up is scary. Outgrowing everyone and everything is scarier. And the fact that both of these are inevitable as time marches forward is similar to this imaginary monster back in my childhood waiting for me to both pull my feet out of my blanket and cut them off.

3rd of February, 2025
I want to move freely in a space where I can do what I want, what I feel is right, what I think makes me happy. I want to do so many things without walking on shattered glass on the floor that I did not even break.

29th of January, 2024
My skull almost aches at the thought of spending my years on Earth trapped in ceaseless self-doubt. It scares me to think that, in the end, I might only remember the moments when I never truly lived at all.

Yearning, too, often lingers in my choice of words, but I rarely yearn for people. At the age where I sit in the midst of existential crises, the desire to live unencumbered by guilt or the longing for the space to simply be rings clear.

I am far from a religious girl, but to battle self-doubt, gratitude is a prayer that rests on my tongue. I always try to thank myself for every leap of faith despite the blasphemous voices I hear in my head.

24th of January, 2025
Opportunities keep coming my way even during the times when I doubt my ownership over them. Just when I think that things may not work in my favor, something magically appears to remind me that beautiful things await me on the other side of doubt.

6th of February, 2024
I will be deserving of it after terrible years spent waking up with tears in my eyes for dreaming of it all night.

27th of October, 2024
A new season has come, an old era has been laid to rest. Grace flows with the new season, and I have sent every obliterating thought that once pulsed through my veins to the grave of the past. This is rebirth. I am moving forward. I am passed on to the new season and she will take me far.

Keeping a journal has always felt like an act of rebellion against everything that has made my existence feel like a constant apology. Between the pages, I never have to swallow a puff of smoke in case someone sees me. I have always been given the freedom to truly feel.

Perhaps I will always deal with self-doubt. Perhaps the longing for growth and the fear of not making it will always coexist. I will bleed and rejoice, fear and cry.

But when these times come around, I know I can always recreate the comfort I’ve seen in my friend when she lights a cigarette (one that doesn’t burn but lets me breathe)