Sometimes (oftentimes) writing is the kind of thing we need to back ourselves into. Facing forward, diving in, especially from great proverbial heights, is simply Too Much—for those who don’t see themselves as writers and, perhaps even more so, for those who do.
As a writer, I’ve never struggled with the blank page per se. My struggle rests more solidly in the messy page, the “useless” page, or the “unproductive” page. While anxieties over whether or not my drafts will ever be worth reading remain pervasive even through books, contracts, and praise, there is also a critical space of respite in my writing life that I’d like to share with you: my “junk” journal.
I started journaling daily when I was 11. I spent all of my adolescence doing so in the simplest possible way: opening a notebook, writing some things about my day (sometimes only a sentence’s worth), signing off. It was tedious, but I’m stubborn and hate change, so I continued writing carelessly—often illegibly—through my adolescence.
When I moved to college, I anticipated homesickness, so made an agreement with my mother to change up my journaling practice: every day, I’d write three to five things that happened that day (usually good, often small) and send her a picture of the page. It was in these moments that my
17-year-old self realized that the “solo” act of journaling was in fact a space of profound connection.
Of course, one connection that I strengthened was the one with my mother, who I was eager to form an adult relationship with after years of tension related to my psychiatric crises. But, as I wrote, there were also other, subtler connections realized between the pages of that journal. I understood the importance of my newfound friendships, the transformative impact of my now-open trans life, and my personal and creative growth in a space away from home.
This creative growth has manifested in a number of ways since my undergraduate years. Now, at twenty-six and nearly finished my PhD, each of my journals remains an archive of complaints, jokes, and vital moments of gratitude. It has also, crucially, become a house of junk. By junk, I refer affectionately to receipts and plane tickets, stickers and greeting cards, characters and illustrations cut out of packaging. Anything that can be (washi) taped into any notebook is fair game, especially if it carries emotional weight.
These pieces of junk help to accessorize my journal. They offer me the opportunity to tape and stick when I don’t feel like writing much. They also remind me of my connections to other people, my experiences both past and potential, the relationships and opportunities that not only make these journals worth keeping, but also make my life worth living.
As a disabled, Mad writer, I’ve been asked many times whether I maintain my journal as a form of catharsis for what may be paternalistically described as my “racing thoughts” and “big feelings.” While conventional “mental health” advice typically invokes the journal as a method for coping with extreme emotions or overwhelming thoughts, my experience has been quite the opposite: digging too deep into fresh thoughts and emotions is more likely to amplify a crisis than to mitigate it. When I write my feelings, I do so on my own timeline, sometimes years after a given event occurred.
Beyond this, my experiences of surveillance and institutionalization are a grim reminder of the risk I take by putting pen to paper, even now, as an adult who lives independently. For those of us who have been taught not to trust our own perceptions, or for whom journaling has at times been a requirement to fulfill “for our own good,” reclaiming the page as a space for junk can be a political act. My journal is not a confessional, but an archive of things that would otherwise have been thrown away, largely disposable things that I have instead chosen to keep and even treasure.
We are the sum of our connections and experiences. The practice not only of journaling, but of junk journaling, can help us move beyond the feelings of isolation and dread associated not only with the blank document, but within a world hostile toward disabled and Mad experiences. Yet the blank document can also pose near-infinite possibilities for those of us accustomed to stories pre-written for us, those of us aching to break out of normative frameworks of value. In this way, my journal is a supplement to the rest of my writing, reminding me that I am the one who gets to choose what I put on the page, and when, whether it’s an emotional passage, a sticker, or an old grocery list.
It’s okay to be overwhelmed by the idea of journaling, of staring down the blank page and eventually putting something on it. Rather than waiting for the perfect moment, consider grabbing a pen, tape, and some junk, just to see what happens. Even in moments of darkness, the page can be a place to document the quotidian joys and tiny artifacts life always has to offer us, and serve as a necessary reminder that we get to choose if, when, and how to tell the stories of our lives.
[sarah] Cavar (they/them) is the author of Failure to Comply (featherproof books, 2024) and Differential Diagnosis (Northwestern University Press, 2026), with genre-nonconforming writing in Kairos, The Rumpus, Transgender Studies Quarterly, Electric Lit, and elsewhere. They hold a PhD in Cultural Studies with a concentration in Science & Technology Studies from the University of California: Davis, and are interested in the politics of queercrip & transMad knowledge production. More at their website, Bluesky, and their newsletter.
About Rooted In Rights
Rooted in Rights exists to amplify the perspectives of the disability community. Blog posts and storyteller videos that we publish and content we re-share on social media do not necessarily reflect the opinions or values of Rooted in Rights nor indicate an endorsement of a program or service by Rooted in Rights. We respect and aim to reflect the diversity of opinions and experiences of the disability community. Rooted in Rights seeks to highlight discussions, not direct them. Learn more about Rooted In Rights
