why journal?
There is something about writing things down that transforms them. Thoughts swirl around in our minds, often half-formed, fleeting, easily forgotten. But once they are set to paper, they change. They gain weight. They invite examination. They stop being mere feelings and start becoming objects of thought. Journaling is, in a very real sense, an externalisation of consciousness. It is a way of seeing what we are thinking.
Most of the good ideas we have do not emerge fully formed after hours of linear thought. More often, they surface when we are grappling with something we barely understand, stumbling through confusion, and writing our way towards clarity. The very act of writing forces us to take the chaotic mass of impressions and feelings and wrestle it into something coherent enough to be communicated. And often, in that wrestling, a new understanding is born.
It might seem quaint to set aside time to reflect on ideas in a world that relentlessly demands productivity. Most of us live lives packed with responsibilities, weighed down by the exhausting churn of work and obligation. Where is the space for intellectual or reflective life in such a world? Is there really value in carving out time to sit, to think, to write? The answer, I think, is yes — urgently so.
There are two arguments for this. One is ancient, the other more modern. Aristotle believed that human flourishing, or eudaimonia, involves cultivating our highest capacities. Chief among these is our rational faculty, our ability to think, to reason, to contemplate. It is not that the rest of life doesn’t matter. Our work, relationships and leisure are all important parts of our lives. It’s that there is a particular fulfilment in developing the capacities that most deeply define us as human beings. Yet, modern life is structured in such a way that these capacities are neglected. The world is not arranged to encourage reflection; it is arranged to encourage consumption, production, and compliance.
The modern argument points to the tyranny of measurement. Nearly every domain of life today is subjected to metrics. Our work is measured by output, our health by steps walked and calories burned, our popularity by likes and followers. Even our rest is often quantified, with apps tracking the quality of our sleep. In such a world, the simple act of writing something that is not for an audience, not to be monetised, not to be measured against any external standard, becomes a radical act. It is a small, stubborn pocket of freedom. It is a way to carve ourselves out from the increasingly smothering reach of market forces that seek to consume us.
When you journal, you engage a part of yourself that is otherwise neglected. You create a part of your life that exists outside the logic of productivity, profit and market capital. This is not an argument against ambition or success. It is simply a reminder that without some corner of life protected from external measures, we risk reducing ourselves to machines optimised for outputs we did not choose.
Aristotle's claim was that the highest form of human life is the life of contemplation, which can seem a bit strange. After all the complexities and virtues discussed in the Nicomachean Ethics, the highest goal is simply to sit and just… think? To modern sensibilities, it feels almost absurdly unproductive. Yet that is precisely the point. Contemplation is not for anything else. It is not a means to an end. It is its own good. It is the end in itself.
This is difficult to accept in a world where hobbies are turned into side-hustles and every hour must justify itself. The notion that something might be valuable simply because it exercises our mind and spirit, without producing anything marketable, is alien. But it is also vital. Reflection, thought, the building of an inner life — these things offer a kind of richness that is becoming increasingly rare.
Of course, developing an intellectual life does not guarantee happiness. In fact, it might, at times, make life more difficult. A deeper awareness of complexity, ambiguity, and contingency can be disorienting. Yet it also makes life more real, more vivid, and ultimately more meaningful. The mystic and philosopher George Gurdjieff taught that inner unity and personal transformation arise through “friction” — the internal struggle between opposing forces within a person, between “yes” and “no.” Without this friction, he argued, a person remains scattered and passive, drifting through life without ever becoming truly whole. Life’s difficulties are not distractions from growth; they are the medium through which growth occurs. Without them, the faculties needed for reflection decay. Life becomes flatter, duller, more susceptible to empty comforts and simple narratives. It might feel easier, but it is a kind of sleepwalking, a way of being less alive.
Engaging thoughtfully with the world — whether through fiction, philosophy, or journaling — forces us to confront ourselves and others more honestly. It demands empathy. It demands humanity. It is through this difficult work that we are forged into something coherent, something capable of meeting the real weight of existence. Thought becomes a kind of shelter, a way to make sense of suffering and to endure it. It makes us more human.
If you want to start journaling, it doesn’t need to be complicated. Find a notebook you like. Find a pen that feels good in your hand. Then write. Try to write every day, but if you can’t, write when you can. The important thing is not the quantity but the habit. If you sit down and don’t know what to write, a simple structure can help.
Begin by describing something that happened — some event of the day before or the day itself. Then write about something you did well, something to be proud of, however small. Follow that by writing about something that did not go well, a moment where you fell short or struggled. Finally, zoom out. Try to place these events into the broader arc of your life. What patterns do you notice? What stories are you telling yourself?
The aim is not merely self-expression. It is self-construction. Many philosophers and thinkers have pointed out that we are storytelling beings. We do not simply live. We narrate our lives. Most of us do this passively, unthinkingly, without much care. Journaling allows you to take an active role in that process. It lets you become the author of your own story.
It is an opportunity to ask the ancient question: Am I satisfied with my life as a whole? Not in the sense of momentary pleasure or success, but in the deeper sense of whether my life has a shape, a coherence, a meaning. Aristotle called it flourishing. The Stoics called it living in accordance with nature. Today, we might simply call it living well.
Journaling won’t solve every problem. But it might give you a way to make sense of them. It might give you a way to make sense of yourself. And that is no small thing.