For my first quarter-century, I filled my days with tasks to do, shows to watch, calls to make. There was little stillness until the evening podcast episode I was listening to faded from my awareness and sleep took over.
This year, I’ve tried to create more space to reflect on my life and what my mind and body tell me. Whether it’s planning out the day, recounting how an experience made me feel, or jotting down a half-baked idea that’s been bouncing around, I’ve tried to capture at least a sliver of my days.
As I skim through my journals, I’ve noticed a trend: when I write more about my internal life, I feel better. Writing about my life feels like giving proper respect to it. And that feeling is priceless. Knowing what I had for dinner on a random Tuesday is a nice by-product.