WHEN I WAS TWELVE, I GOT A BLUE PLASTIC JOURNAL.

I started writing letters to my grandmother, who had recently passed away, detailing what I had done each day. I signed each one—in loopy cursive— “Love, Emma.” While I eventually abandoned the letter-writing format, I have kept a journal ever since.

During college, I started writing consistently not about my days’ actions, but about what drove me to do and feel certain things—I wanted to better understand my mind so that I could find the happiness that had come so easily before. At college, life was suddenly confusing and lonely, and I didn’t understand why. So I wrote.

Writing created a separation just slight enough to access parts of myself I otherwise didn’t see or even know. And in this dialogue, I became my own best friend, and also my own therapist.

I have been told repeatedly that the difficulty and the confusion of life get easier as you get older. But I believe that our obsession with getting better and figuring things out—whatever that means—is the wrong approach. It identifies some sort of end goal and makes it incredibly hard to stay engaged in the present. 

And for me, staying here—noticing the light and leaves and the anger and glee—is the most fulfilling way to go about this life. I have found that growth is rooted in acceptance and using that to navigate the uncertainty of life. There is power in acknowledging and saying “yes” to what is. 

Keeping a journal (which is pretty much what this blog is) is founded on the belief that every thought, reaction, habit, and worry—every breakfast eaten and text sent— is worthy. 

I hope that by publishing my words, I am able to accept more, to love more, and to see more as worthy.