For most of my life, I measured my worth by how well I hid my pain. If I smiled big enough, worked hard enough, or kept quiet long enough, maybe no one would notice the truth. My survival strategy was simple: silence. Silence in my relationships. Silence with my family. Silence with myself.
I thought silence was strength, but really, it was a cage.
Like so many trauma survivors, I learned early that my feelings were dangerous. They made other people uncomfortable. They exposed truths no one wanted to hear. So, I buried them. I became the girl who held everything in, who laughed loudly at parties and cried quietly behind closed doors, who seemed put together but was falling apart inside.
That worked—until it didn’t.
Eventually, the weight of carrying everything alone became too much. The cracks I had tried so hard to hide split wide open. Anxiety, depression, and self-destructive choices became my daily reality. And yet, even then, I believed the lie that if I could just hold it together a little longer, maybe I could survive without ever being seen.
What saved me wasn’t some grand revelation. It was a pen.
Putting Pain on Paper
The first time I picked up a journal, I didn’t know what I was doing. I wasn’t a writer. I didn’t plan on documenting my trauma. I just needed somewhere to put the pain that felt like it was eating me alive.
At first, my writing was scattered—half sentences, angry scribbles, messy fragments of thoughts. But on the page, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: freedom.
In my journal, I didn’t have to pretend. I didn’t have to protect anyone else’s feelings. I didn’t have to minimize my story or make it palatable. I could be raw. I could be angry. I could be honest.
Every word I wrote became a release valve. Journaling didn’t erase the pain, but it gave me space to breathe. It gave me permission to exist as I was—unfiltered and unashamed.
What Journaling Revealed
The more I wrote, the more I began to see my story differently.
- Silence was survival, not weakness.
For years, I blamed myself for not speaking sooner. I thought my silence meant I was weak. Journaling helped me understand that silence was how I survived when I didn’t have safety. That shift allowed me to forgive myself and stop carrying shame that wasn’t mine to begin with.
- Shame was inherited, not deserved.
On the page, I began to trace the roots of my shame—to the words of abusers, to cultural messages, to the ways trauma teaches us to internalize blame. Writing it out helped me see that shame was handed to me. It didn’t belong to me. And I could return it.
- My story held power, not poison.
At first, I feared that writing about trauma would make it worse, like reopening old wounds. But over time, I realized the opposite was true. My story wasn’t toxic—it was testimony. Each page I wrote proved that I had survived. That shift changed everything.
The Healing in Ink
Journaling didn’t “fix” me overnight. Healing isn’t neat. It’s not a straight line. But journaling gave me a rhythm: release, reflect, reclaim.
Release what was too heavy to hold inside.
Reflect on the patterns I was repeating.
Reclaim my voice, my agency, and eventually, my identity.
Through journaling, I went from surviving to slowly, steadily living again. It became my most consistent form of therapy—a place where I could show up in my truth every single day.
Eventually, this practice grew into something larger: the Pain to Power™ Journal Series. I created these journals because I wanted to give other women the same safe space I had needed—the space to write without judgment, to reflect without fear, and to remember that their voices matter.
Try This: Journal Prompts to Begin Your Own Healing
If you’re wondering where to start, don’t overthink it. Healing through writing isn’t about crafting perfect sentences—it’s about telling yourself the truth. Here are three prompts that continue to guide me:
- What am I most afraid to say out loud—and why?
- What parts of myself did I have to hide in order to survive?
- If my younger self could hear me now, what would I tell her?
Write without censoring yourself. Let it be messy. Let it be real. Your journal doesn’t care if you spell words wrong or write in fragments. It only cares that you show up.
To the Woman Still in Silence
If you’re still measuring your worth by how well you hide your pain, I see you. I know how exhausting it is to keep smiling while you’re crumbling inside. I know what it feels like to believe your silence makes you strong.
But here’s what I’ve learned: silence might have kept you safe once, but it’s not where your healing lives. Your healing lives in your voice. And journaling can be the bridge between silence and freedom.
Start small. Start with one page. Start with one word if that’s all you have. Each time you write, you’re reclaiming a piece of yourself.
Because you are not what happened to you. You are what you choose to become.
Unsubscribe · Preferences
