Fifty years ago, when I was 17 and in rehab, my therapist gave me a journal. Her name was Norma. She suggested that I write one page every night. At the time, I barely knew who I was or where my life was headed. I was learning about myself and about recovery. I had no road map and little reason to believe things would work out. I never imagined a journal would become part of my life for the next five decades.
I didn’t write every day. Some nights I wrote for an hour. Other nights the journal just sat there. There were years I barely opened it. But I never stopped writing; I always came back. I couldn’t really tell you why. It just helped.
Today, I have 81 journals. Their pages are filled with pieces of a life of recovery, love, hope, growth, loss, and change. When I look at them, I don’t just see words on pages. I see a woman figuring it out. The journals speak of fear, hope, heartbreak, despair, friendship, grief, anger, joy, and all the feelings that make up a life. Some were written when I was struggling to understand myself, trying to name things I couldn’t quite name yet. Others were written as I became a therapist, a mother, a psychologist, and a partner. Depending on my moods, my handwriting would change. As did my words. As I grew, my understanding of myself deepened, and my life took turns I never could have anticipated. Through it all, I persisted. Page by page, I kept showing up for myself.
For decades, Norma remained part of the beginning of my recovery story. I remembered what she had given me, but I had no idea where she was or whether I would ever see her again. Then, 50 years later, I found her online. I called her. I don’t know exactly what I expected when she answered. I only knew I wanted to tell her how my life had unfolded. That I had stayed clean and sober since rehab. That I had become a therapist. That I had a life beyond my wildest dreams. And that the journal she gave me had multiplied into 81. I wanted her to know that her small suggestion stayed with me. Our conversation was emotional. Norma was surprised I had found her after all those years and even more amazed I had called.
During her career, she counseled many clients without knowing which seeds would take root and which wouldn’t. Most of the time, we never find out. We may remember a client, a session, or a particular moment. But the person sitting across from us may carry something from that encounter long after the session ends, the next year, or the next chapter of their lives.
What feels like a small moment to us might be something a client carries for years. Sometimes it is a word, a new perspective, a question, or a journal that opens a door. We don’t often get to see how deeply we have touched another person. However, if we’re fortunate, a former client calls and lets us know.
Norma gave me a journal. At 17, I didn’t really understand what she was giving me. It took years to figure out what it was. Now I know those pages held things I couldn’t say out loud, the good, the bad, all of it. The journal didn’t judge me. And neither did she.
If I could speak to the person I was back then, I would tell her this: Keep writing. Don’t give up. You have no idea what your life will become.
Norma gave me a journal and suggested that I write one page a night. She couldn’t have known that the gift would fill 81 journals and eventually bring us back together.
Thank you, Norma.
