This is me next to my most valued treasures—all the journals I've written since I was seven!

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My seven-year old journal on the very bottom of the towering stack tells a long rambling made-up story of how my family moves to Colorado and my brother and I ride horses to school on the days we aren't skiing to school!

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I wrote at least one journal every year. Sometimes four. My middle school journals are about babysitting, my friends, doing homework, riding my bike to Clark street beach and downtown Evanston. I grew up in Evanston and went to King Lab, too! And Chute because back in my day, King Lab was a K-5 school only.

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The journal on the very top of the pile, I just finished at the end of July. It has my thoughts about Covid, racism, and ideas about starting a Writing Club (yes, this one!). 

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While I was writing these journals, I had fun. I explored my identity, writing about who I am, what I believe, what I want to give to the world. Sometimes the writing was sad and confusing. But as long I just kept writing, I always eventually learned my truth and felt better.

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Writing helped me think through information I didn't understand. It still does! Writing keeps my secrets. Writing is like a cozy blanket. Like a best friend. Like trees that give oxygen so we can breathe. 

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But writing is only half the story. The other half is that someone will read what you write and it can change their life. That someone might be you, reading your own journals. I did. I read all these journals and it was like living my life again. It reminded me of the ups and downs. And the back ups. 

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Writing is power. The power to get back up. The power to connect to the past, present, and future. The power to transform ourselves and the world around us.

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