Pages From My Journal

I wish we all learned to journal as kids, and continued the habit all throughout adulthood. If you’ve been a life-long journaler, I’m a little jealous. I yearn for a stack of filled notebooks chronicling my observations, thoughts, internal conflict, and personal growth. Journaling hasn’t always been a steady habit for me—I’ve had more of a fragmented approach to written reflection.

I was into blogs back when people were into Homestar Runner. I have personal blog archives from as early as 2003, my senior year of college. I blogged off and on for five years, capturing some pivotal years of personal development. These entries were unpublished long ago, but as I prepare to share a significant, vulnerable piece of self-reflection with you (coming next week), I’m resurrecting one slightly edited post from January 2006. I was 23. Back then I titled it Why Aren’t There Mirrors In Your Fucked Up Bubble?

Journal Entry: January 11, 2006

I used to live in a tiny, tiny bubble. It was religious in nature. I liked it in there. Everything was easy, even though I tried to make it seem so hard. I didn't have to think very much, since there were plenty of other more important people to do that for me.

Then, one night the bubble started to leak. It didn't really pop, it just developed a slow, semi-porous hole. I made one decision, then another. "No, I don't want to go into full-time missions." "No, I don't feel like reading my bible right now." "No, church really isn't that relevant to my life."

When bubbles leak, they start to shrink. The walls close in on you. You gasp for air. What are you to do? The obvious choice is to surround yourself with others whose bubbles are so incredibly inflated that they have some air to spare. Live with them—they can help you pump up your bubble. I thought that was a good choice.

The thing about bubbles is they are transparent. Although your mind is stuck inside, you can still see into the world around you, and if you give your brain a chance you can even think critically about it. I like thinking, and driving—I tend to combine the two. Commutes help with that.

I decided that the diverse opinions of others around me were quite interesting, and I wanted to know more about them. A short time later, the bubble popped. The people sharing my house began bumping into me with their huge, engorged bubbles. I had to get out, so out I went.

The bubble's gone. It's just me and the world now. I'm starting to learn about it… every part of it. I'm starting to learn about justice, and equality. Ironically, the good attributes that were emphasized back in my bubble days - forgiveness, mercy, compassion, selflessness - seem to have disappeared with the bubble. I'm indifferent, self-righteous, and painfully independent. But I know I won't stay the way I am. When the bubble pops you finally have room to grow, to become the person your parents always knew you would be. Now I'm just waiting for that to happen.

I also have stacks of notebooks, but they’re not really journals. They’re a hodgepodge of handwritten missives, notes from meetings, and lists of things I want to remember. It’s all interspersed with pages of stream-of-consciousness thoughts I just had to get on paper, no matter what the closest paper was. The most common place I’m in, physically, when that urge hits is an airplane. I had one of those moments in March 2022. Here’s a bit of what ended up on the page. I was 39.

Journal Entry: March 18, 2022

As I watch white people stand behind podiums and make grand statements about the world, opportunity, social mobility, inclusion, and other topics that grace the pages of conference programs, it’s all too often clear who they’re speaking on behalf of—and who they’re speaking to.

They don’t even know they’re doing it. But their anecdotes make assumptions about shared experiences. About access. About resources. About opportunity.

They present two “diversity scholarships” and then give all the awards to old white men.

I feel deeply for people. I want the best for them. I can only imagine what it feels like to not be safe in your own skin. Not to be seen or heard when you’re exceptional and surrounded by white mediocrity. I basically have no idea what it’s like to not feel safe on a regular basis.

Think about how we all got here. How our lives have been valued. Or protected. Or not. For centuries. If you don’t feel a little unsettled right now, are you paying attention?

These journal entries are artifacts of my still-in-progress journey toward anti-racism and systemic equity. 16 years elapsed between them. 23-year-old me was right—I didn’t stay the same. I’ve spent the last two months reflecting on part of that journey, what it meant for me, and what it could offer for you, dear reader.

That’s what I’ll be sharing with you next week—all 4,000 words of it. I’m telling you now so I’m compelled to keep my word because if I’m honest, I’m a little scared. But I’m going to do it scared.