Arriving back at Chapel Hill is a lot. It’s fun; don’t get me wrong. I’ve already been on lunch catch-up dates with around 300 people — I’m super popular, don’t be intimidated — and have had some version of the same small talk conversation with about 300 more.
It’s exhilarating and bustling and engaging and interesting and all the other positive social adjectives. It’s also exhausting. It can feel, at times, impossible to be fully alone on this heavily populated campus we call home.
Given the omnipresence of social interaction at school, I have found myself, in the past week, being drawn more forcefully than usual toward the self-reflective solitude that is inherently accessible in any journal. (An important distinction: I will never call it a “diary.” Honestly, the whole “Dear Diary” thing makes me uncomfortable. Stop talking to your book. It’s weird. Anyway.)
I have found clarity and comfort in the act of expressing my thoughts in words, for myself and by myself. Arguments become tangible; emotions are dealt with concretely; interactions are summarized and interpreted.
Putting words to the intangibles of daily life forces journalers to grapple with them in a way that is, I think, liberating and healthy.
My English major status might introduce some bias, but I do genuinely believe that self-reflective writing is an essential step toward leading a thoughtful and genuine life. “The unexamined life is not worth living,” and all that.
If for no other reason, journals are thoroughly worthwhile for their commemorative aspects. Trust me, your first-year journals will be invaluable reads a year later.
Remember the boy in your English 105 class that you were madly in love with for a month?
And that time you spent eight hours in Lenoir for no apparent reason?
