Over the years, personal writing has helped me in countless ways, offering just-in-time relief when it seemed nothing else could.
Lately, though, I’ve been reflecting on the way this kind of writing changes us over time. I’ve come to believe that what we record in our journals unfolds bit by bit, deepening until one day, we suddenly see things in a new light.
For me, physical activity seems to stimulate new thoughts about the issues I’m working on in my journal. It’s almost as if my writing sets these thoughts in motion, then motion itself does the rest.
This came into play nearly a year ago, when I walked into dance class and encountered a woman I hadn’t seen in forever.
She and I had been very close once. In fact, we had built a successful business together when we were young mothers. Working together as many as 14 hours a day, we shared virtually everything — hopes, dreams, fears and long-held secrets. But when I told her I had decided to leave my husband of nearly 25 years, it seemed our friendship might not weather the storm.
At first I had no intention of leaving our business. We had created it from the ground up, starting only with our shared passion for hosting beautiful events. Together we took classes to learn the skills that would transform us into professional floral designers. We learned, one gig and one mishap and one little triumph at a time, how to turn raw materials into pure magic. It was stimulating and exciting work, and even though we were doing dozens of weddings, showers and special events every season, we were making only a modest profit.
As the divorce moved forward, it became clear that a regular paycheck would be absolutely essential for me. In fact, the sooner I could find a “day job,” the more secure we all would feel.
Except for my partner, that is — who felt betrayed, abandoned and alone.
I wasn’t surprised when she responded to my news with anger and tears. She felt utterly blindsided. I’d been determined to stay, even searching for a new home with ample storage room for our vintage glassware and containers, which had been stashed under my back porch until then. But I was beginning to realize that my hopes of continuing weren’t resting on solid ground.
My attorney — a true and compassionate counselor who had endured a difficult divorce herself — helped me see that my future and my children’s well-being depended on me having a good income, low-cost health insurance and retirement benefits. These were things our little business could not provide, no matter how lovingly we’d built it.
As the shock of this realization wore off, my partner-friend asked if I would fulfill the rest of the season’s contracts with her. Agreeing to this made me feel I was offering at least some support for her — and God knows I needed the money. But as we tried to work together, it was clear the arrangement was flawed. She was heartbroken, and the tension between us made it hard to collaborate freely as we once had.
Gradually we backed away from one another. I rented an apartment with bedrooms for my two kids and a small alcove for my double bed. I threw myself into my new job, learning all over again how to be an effective team member in a fast-paced corporate setting, a role I’d played years before. On the train into the city, I often found myself crying, unable to contain the guilt, shame and fear that followed me everywhere.
More than 15 years passed. Then came the day I saw that familiar face in the dance studio mirror. My eyesight had dimmed, so at first glance I wasn’t sure. But when the music started, all doubt fell away. I recognized the movements of a woman I’d known in what felt like another lifetime.
After class I watched as she dashed across the studio floor and out the door. I sat in my car agonizing about what to do next. I loved this dance class. I didn’t want to feel sad or guilty in a space that had always been welcoming and safe. Knowing her as I did, I felt sure she didn’t want that either.
For days I obsessed about it, wondering how to make things a little more natural when we saw each other. Maybe it was as simple as offering a warm hello. But when our eyes met for a fleeting second after the next class, I felt the same old anger and contempt. Memories bubbled up, and with them, a host of unanswered questions:
Do I need to feel bad about what happened — even after all these years?
Is she still furious with me, or am I misreading the situation?
Could one last conversation help both of us feel more at ease?
After months of agonizing, I dropped a little note off at her home, suggesting we find a way to reconnect. She replied that she wasn’t interested in friendship, but eventually we did meet for coffee.
She seemed more upset than ever. I listened to a flood of new insights that made me realize her antipathy had run deeper than I’d ever imagined. This drove me right into my journal, where I walked back through the history of our relationship and the strong feelings that surrounded it.
With the arrival of COVID, we both stopped coming to the studio. But even when I attended class online, terrible emotions would rise up, throwing me off beat and robbing me of the joy I’d always felt when I was dancing.
One day, though, without warning or conscious effort, the story shifted inside me. As I moved to the music, I heard something new.
“I feel peaceful now.”
““I’m glad we were together all that time.”
“I can see and appreciate all things she taught me.”
“She still feels hurt and I can’t change that.”
If my friend ever reads what I’ve written here, it may make her furious all over again. But I realize now that I have the right to leave the resentments behind even if she continues to feel them.
And who knows? Deep inside, she may feel perfectly calm. Her feelings are her own, just as mine are mine.
For me, it’s enough to realize that healing arrives in its own time. Journaling eases stress and pain in the moment, but its deeper rewards aren’t always immediate. What we begin when we first put pen to paper may continue quietly inside us until we reach the place we’ve longed to be.