Why I write every single day
I started writing this year, to have a daily ritual that helps me connect with myself, and one that engages me entirely. It started as a habit I wanted to cultivate, but over this year it’s become that pocket of stillness that completes the day. Most days, this is an unhurried activity, almost like a daily meditation. It makes me stop, reflect, use my head and heart, use my hands and create.
I used to write to get out of my head earlier. And it’s helped escape monotonous phases in my life, get through sleepy days at work, distract me from things in my real life that would be insurmountable issues in my head. But I find that has changed and now I write to get in my head. To distill the jumble and get to the heart of it.
This has definitely meant I have slowly cultivated what it is to just be with me and my thoughts. The good and unsavoury ones.Without a necessary outcome as I used to know it. It’s helped me stay. It’s helped me be still.
It’s also helped me break my obsession with perfection in my writing. I write here, with a very specific objective to not curb, edit or filter my words. Purely because of the purpose of this blog as a journal, a notebook to mark my days as they develop.
I write to acknowledge and internalise the goodness in my life, and to record gratitude so it isn’t a mere passing thought, but a deliberate feeling.
Writing everyday is a tool for the constant work of going back to being me, the most honest version of me that I know, or can get to know, through this process. Words are the tool and writing is a bloody good exercise for it.
I write to record memories of instances when I felt things shift. This has 100% contributed to my sense of confidence in the way I carry myself. I suppose this is one of the crucial side effects of any daily ritual — do anything long enough, with enough involvement and it becomes you. Seeing, tracking, writing and reading about the changes I’ve experienced has trickled out from the innards of this journal, into my real life. It’s given me a solidity to my being, and a strong and renewed coherence to my inner monologue, the language of me.