Kathryn L Kaplan

Until recently, I didn’t really know the essence of my story. When my husband and I decided to embark on an adventure, shifting our life to another country, I was forced to deal with my stuff. What would come with us, what would not? My collection of journals—32 7” x 10” hard-bound spiral sketchbooks covering 25 years—was heavy and took up a lot of space. I asked myself, Why drag your past with you, if you are creating a new future? My answer was visceral: the journals wanted to come with me.

Besides writing, journaling for me also included drawing, collage, note-taking, and quote-taking; it was a tool that helped me stay grounded, curious, and creative. Ever thorough (it might as well be my middle name), I carefully read through each book once in our new home, having a lot of time alone due to COVID restrictions. This structured review of what I called My Wise and Wonderful Black Book Series gave me not only the insights about my life, but also the integration of my life I had been seeking. The benefit of having journals is that they exist, so I didn’t have to rely on memory—so subjective and imperfect—to know myself more fully and deeply. I couldn’t deny the truths I had written.

Journaling has been my lifeline—a best friend, comfort clothes, a sacred space—and helped me navigate work, relationships, family, and therapy. The intimacy of self-exploration, diving into a private world, holding the secrets of my fears and desires, allowed me to know and accept my struggles. I saw my failures, but also my successes. I saw my missteps, but also my inspired leaps.

Whether writing or rereading, my journals have been my saving grace, helping me process pain, disappointments, joy, and grief. My comprehensive journal review enabled me to engage in a kind of alchemy, transforming raw material into the substance of a memoir.

Where I’ve been reluctant to let my light shine in the outer world, I found a safe space for claiming myself—in my journals.