The Turning Point Didn’t Start in a Hospital
It Started With a Notebook
I didn’t start journalling because someone told me to.
I didn’t sit down with a plan or a pretty notebook or a sense of purpose.
I started because I needed somewhere for everything to go.
When I became ill, my world changed almost overnight. I went from a house full of noise and people to long stretches of time on my own. We had five children, ran a business from home, had dogs under our feet — life was loud and busy and full. Then suddenly, it wasn’t.
Hospital wards are full of people, but they can be deeply lonely places. I had no energy, no certainty, and no idea what the future would look like. I didn’t always have the words — or the strength — to talk. So I started typing thoughts into the notes app on my phone. Fears. Fragments. Half-sentences. Things I didn’t know how to say out loud.
It became somewhere to put the thoughts when there was nowhere else for them to go.
The “After” No One Warns You About
When I came home, survival mode slowly switched off — and that’s when everything else arrived.
My mind was back, sharp and busy, but my body couldn’t keep up. Recovery was slow. Living with a transplant came with limitations I hadn’t yet learned how to hold. And because everything had happened so fast, I hadn’t processed any of it.
Every shock.
Every piece of bad news.
Every emotion.
They’d all been packed away and put on a shelf marked “deal with this later”.
The problem was, that shelf was full — and starting to collapse.
Everyone around me was understandably relieved. Happy. Grateful that I was alive. And I was grateful — deeply. But alongside that gratitude sat grief, sadness, confusion, and a desperate sense of being stuck.
It felt almost like postnatal depression. I’d been given a gift. I was expected to be happy. And because I wasn’t, the guilt grew heavier.
I looked for help. There wasn’t much — not anything accessible in the short term. So again, I picked up my phone. Then later, a notebook.
And I wrote.
Journalling Became the Raft
There’s an image I often come back to.
I felt like I was alone at sea in a storm — waves crashing, no land in sight, no idea how I was going to be saved.
Writing became the raft.
It didn’t stop the storm.
It didn’t magically fix anything.
But it gave me somewhere to climb out of the water for a while. Somewhere steady. Somewhere safe.
A blank page waiting patiently for whatever I needed to put down — worry, fear, anger, sadness, gratitude, hope. Nothing had to be tidy. Nothing had to make sense. I wasn’t protecting anyone else’s feelings there. I could be honest.
That mattered more than I realised at the time.
What Journalling Is (and Isn’t)
Journalling isn’t about positive thinking your way out of pain.
It isn’t about beautiful handwriting or filling pages every day.
It isn’t about fixing yourself.
For me, it was about acknowledging reality.
Some days I wrote pages. Other days it was a single sentence, a list, or a badly sketched picture (I’m not artistic). Sometimes I wrote every day for a week. Sometimes I didn’t touch it for days at a time.
It was there for me — not another thing to fail at.
On better days, I wrote down small good things: a hug, a shared meal, a quiet morning. On darker days, I could read back and see proof that I’d had hard days before — and survived them.
That reminder mattered more than encouragement ever could.
Why Messy Journalling Still Counts
If you’re waiting until you have the right words, the right notebook, or the right mindset — you’ll probably never start.
Messy journalling is journalling.
Bullet points count.
Half-sentences count.
Angry pages count.
Silence followed by a return weeks later counts.
Like an old friend, it didn’t matter how long it had been — when I came back, it was still safe.
How to Start in 5 Minutes
If talking feels too big right now, try this instead:
Set a timer for five minutes.
Open a notebook or a notes app.
Don’t reread. Don’t edit. Don’t judge.
Just write.
If you don’t know where to begin, start with one sentence.
One-Sentence Starters
Right now, I’m standing in the after of…
I didn’t expect to feel…
What I’m not saying out loud is…
The part of this that hurts the most is…
Today feels heavier because…
If I’m honest, I’m afraid that…
One thing I wish someone understood is…
Stop when the timer ends — even if you’re mid-sentence. You can always come back.
Your First 7 Days of Gentle Prompts
These are the prompts I wish I’d had at the beginning — simple, human, and doable.
Day 1:
Right now, I’m standing in the after of…
Day 2:
What has changed — and what has stayed the same?
Day 3:
What feels hardest to explain to other people?
Day 4:
What am I carrying that no one can see?
Day 5:
A small moment from this week that mattered more than I expected.
Day 6:
What would I say to myself if I didn’t have to be brave today?
Day 7:
What I need most right now is…
There’s no right way to answer these. One sentence is enough.
A Gentle Invitation
Journalling didn’t save me — but it helped me survive long enough to heal.
If you feel like talking is too much, or you don’t know where to start, you’re not failing. You might just need a quieter place to begin.
If you’d like support with that first step:
Explore the Let’s Start Journalling Gift Sets
Or join the Journalling Course, created for real life — not perfection
This isn’t a magic fix.
It’s a tool.
And sometimes, that’s enough to begin.