There was a time when I wanted to be an artist. I worked my ass off in excelling in an art class while in middle school, and I ended up winning an art contest with a colorful and decorative quilt design. The prizes were a certificate, and a small, hardcover book to sketch in.

That little art book was where I’ve done my first drawings: characters, objects, scenes featuring some of my favorite characters at the time. It was the first time I was able to express myself on my own discretion, and I loved every minute it. So much so that I graduated to drawing on-and-off in notebooks, expressing my feelings and drawing just about anything that felt right. To this day I still hone my craft in-between my lecture notes.

But then I turned 16, and I decided to become, first and foremost, a writer. By the time I got hold on my next journal, which an old, flowery-covered spiral notepad that I wrote in for an assignment once in kindergarten, I couldn’t wait to write down about my days every single morning. I wrote about the colors of the sky outside my window, how yesterday was like, what my friends were liked. I even stamped every entry with an exact time so I can clearly recall the wee hours I wrote memories onto that pink paper. I grew fascinated with the imagery within the words I wrote.

But then came the transition from high school to college. Obligations began to surface, and the pressures of assignments, finding a job, and getting used to once again being a small fish in a big pond. I fell into the vicious cycle of feeling too tired in the day to work and forcing myself to stay up. I lost time for my hobbies, and I was feeling anxious.

The journal, however, remained with me on my bedside. Started writing poetry on the last few pages on my little artbook, lead to typing ideas within my phone, and finally lead to keeping an old, empty book as my own personal canvas. I fell in love once more...

People say that a journal is a window to someone’s true self, taking to consideration that anyone can pour their deepest, darkest secrets into a book. But in fact, A journal could contain any thought their owner had thought up, drawings of their favorite animal, or even phrases or story titles that they just find really cool-sounding. From my experience, a journal is more than just a secrets holder: it’s a means to discovering who we are as people. If anything, a journal is but a catalyst to developing the self we yearn to be one day.

So why not go and pursue that with a journal of your own?