e inside of me, still looking for acceptance, still hoping for understanding, still waiting to be accepted and loved. Instead of offering myself understanding and compassion I attempted to wipe my words and my feelings out. These judgments -directed toward myself -generated such shame in me thOver the past few weeks I have given careful thought to the messages I deliver. Writing is something I take very seriously. And it is important to me that I focus my attention and my words on those things that really matter to me.

I have written profusely in a journal since the age of twelve. Most of my writings I have kept private. When I was in my early thirties I reread some of my early adolescent outpourings. At the time I did not understand fully that I could choose to be compassionate and caring to my earlier self. Instead I judged and condemned myself fully. Here are some examples of the thoughts that went through my mind as I reread what my younger self had written.

What a fool I am!
How pathetic!
I was so sad and lonely and miserable!
I don’t want to remember any of this!
How ridiculous that I wrote it all down.
And not in one journal but year after year, page after page.

Not only was I critical of my feelings. I also judged myself for writing about them. I could not bare to face how sad I had once been. Really, I was having trouble accepting that the sad teenager I had once been was still alive inside of me, still looking for acceptance, still hoping for understanding, still waiting to be accepted and loved. Instead of offering myself understanding and compassion I attempted to wipe my words and my feelings out. These judgments -directed toward myself -generated such shame in me th

elve. Most of my writings I have kept private. When I was in my early thirties I reread some of my early adolescent outpourings. At the time I did not understand fully that I could choose to be compassionate and caring to my earlier self. Instead I judged and condemned myself fully. Here are some examples of the thoughts that went through my mind as I reread what my younger self had written.

What a fool I am!
How pathetic!
I was so sad and lonely and miserable!
I don’t want to remember any of this!
How ridiculous that I wrote it all down.
And not in one journal but year after year, page after page.

Not only was I critical of my feelings. I also judged myself for writing about them. I could not bare to face how sad I had once been. Really, I was having trouble accepting that the sad teenager I had once been was still alive inside of me, still looking for acceptance, still hoping for understanding, still waiting to be accepted and loved. Instead of offering myself understanding and compassion I attempted to wipe my words and my feelings out. These judgments -directed toward myself -generated such shame in me th

ome examples of the thoughts that went through my mind as I reread what my younger self had written.

What a fool I am!
How pathetic!
I was so sad and lonely and miserable!
I don’t want to remember any of this!
How ridiculous that I wrote it all down.
And not in one journal but year after year, page after page.

Not only was I critical of my feelings. I also judged myself for writing about them. I could not bare to face how sad I had once been. Really, I was having trouble accepting that the sad teenager I had once been was still alive inside of me, still looking for acceptance, still hoping for understanding, still waiting to be accepted and loved. Instead of offering myself understanding and compassion I attempted to wipe my words and my feelings out. These judgments -directed toward myself -generated such shame in me th

in one journal but year after year, page after page.

Not only was I critical of my feelings. I also judged myself for writing about them. I could not bare to face how sad I had once been. Really, I was having trouble accepting that the sad teenager I had once been was still alive inside of me, still looking for acceptance, still hoping for understanding, still waiting to be accepted and loved. Instead of offering myself understanding and compassion I attempted to wipe my words and my feelings out. These judgments -directed toward myself -generated such shame in me th

e inside of me, still looking for acceptance, still hoping for understanding, still waiting to be accepted and loved. Instead of offering myself understanding and compassion I attempted to wipe my words and my feelings out. These judgments -directed toward myself -generated such shame in me that here is what I did. I took a big stack of journals from my teenage years and I burned them.

Now, many years later, you might wonder what has changed? Today I store my journals in a beautiful wooden chest. I feel warm and kind when I open the lid and gaze at the stacks of fabric and leather bound books. I treasure the physical representation of my own self-expression. The truth is I rarely review what I previously wrote. I have little desire to revisit the past but I still receive enormous pleasure from knowing they are there. Today, I am most excited about what I am writing right now. I know that it is today’s words and today’s thoughts that create my future. It is good to know how far I have come. My past journals are a demonstration of my passion for living life fully. I celebrate them and the many different parts of me that went into them.

Today, I am committed to self-cherishing. That means I choose to embrace all aspects of myself. I comfort the parts of me that get sad. I embrace the parts of me that get frustrated. I choose to honor the dreamer, the lover and the mystic parts of me. And I catch myself when I am being un-loving. I am c