This past April, I hit a bit of a snag with my journaling. I had this idea in my head that I’d be one of those people with a notebook always at hand, filled with insightful notes and daily reflections. Ready to write the best blog posts you’ve ever read — but the truth is, it wasn’t working out like that. I went on holiday this summer and didn’t miss scribbling in my notebook, which made me stop and think.

There was a time around last Christmas when I was really into it. I had convinced myself that this daily writing was the key to my happiness. But after a while, I realised that it wasn’t the act of writing that made me happy; it was me figuring out things for myself. Sure, the people and things I care about (like my family) can give me a boost, but at the end of the day, my happiness is up to me.

There’s something about writing by hand that feels right to me, even though it’s slower than typing, and you can’t just hit ‘search’ to find something you wrote. But for some reason, I just stopped using my notebook for a few months. It’s like it went into hibernation or something. Eventually, it just stopped being a part of my routine, and by the time summer came around, I had stopped using it altogether.

One has always been close by, but just sitting and waiting for me to pick it back up again. I had the occasional flick through it to find an idea or a quote I remember writing down, but always placing it back down again with a promise to start using it once more. Perhaps that day is today. Well, the past week or so, actually. I drew a line under everything, metaphorically and physically. I’ve got a new notebook now, and I’m ready to give it another shot.

Notebooks might come and go, but I’m sticking with it.