I used to journal all the time as a kid.
Then somewhere along the way, it quietly disappeared from my life—unless I was doing something “worth documenting,” like traveling or a big milestone moment.
When topical steroid withdrawal entered my life, journaling was the last thing on my mind.
Why I didn’t want to write this season down
At the beginning of my TSW journey, I was in constant pain. My skin was cracked, peeling, raw. I could barely move some days. Holding a pen hurt my hands, and mentally, I was just trying to survive the next hour. So when people gently suggested that I journal my experience, my immediate thought was: absolutely not.
I didn’t want to remember this season.
I wanted to get through it and leave it behind.
There was so much trauma, discomfort, and exhaustion wrapped into those early months that the idea of writing it all down felt overwhelming. Forgetting felt easier than facing it.
Starting small (because that’s all I could do)
But one of my family members kept encouraging me to at least take pictures and write a few things down. I resisted at first. Eventually, I compromised—with myself more than anyone else.
I started taking photos about once a week.
And I started journaling once a week too—but only in the simplest way possible. Jot notes. Nothing fancy. No pressure to be poetic or insightful. My hands simply couldn’t handle more than that.
I wrote down things like:
- what I was eating
- how my sleep had been
- anything that seemed to help or make things worse
- whether the week felt like progress or regression
That was it.
Seeing progress when I felt stuck
What surprised me was what happened a few weeks later.
On some of my hardest days—when I felt like nothing was improving and the pain felt endless—I would look back at earlier entries. And there it was. Quiet, undeniable evidence that something was changing.
Even when I felt awful, the words on the page told a slightly different story. The photos showed subtle shifts. The notes revealed patterns. Progress was happening, even when I couldn’t feel it.
For the first time in a long time, I could see hope.
How journaling shifted my perspective
That simple practice shifted my perspective. It gently pulled me out of the box of depression, frustration, and hopelessness I had been sitting in. Journaling gave me a wider view—one that reminded me healing isn’t always loud or linear, but it is real.
From survival notes to emotional healing
Over time, journaling became a stress reliever. A place to release what I was carrying. As my hands became less cracked and painful, I began writing more—about my emotions, my thoughts, my fears.
It also became a place for prayer.
I prayed for strength when I felt weak.
For resilience when I wanted to give up.
For gratitude—even in the middle of suffering.
Looking back: pain, growth, and faithfulness
Now, when I look back at those pages, I don’t just see pain. I see a testimony.
I’m reminded of how far I’ve come. I’m thankful for the photos, because truthfully, I would have blocked out how much I endured and how deeply I’ve grown. I’ve been made new—and there’s something beautiful about seeing the trail behind me, not just the destination.
God was faithful then.
He is faithful now.
And He will be faithful forevermore.
Try journaling.
If you aren’t already doing it, you might be surprised how helpful it can be—especially during seasons of healing. It doesn’t have to be perfect or daily or pretty. It just has to be honest.
For me, it became a way to maintain hope, build resilience, and anchor my faith while navigating one of the hardest chapters of my life.
And one day, when you look back, you may realize it wasn’t just a record of what you survived—but proof of how strong, faithful, and deeply supported you truly were.
