The stoic art of journaling is a cherished part of life.

Stoicism has been part of my life for a while, and something that I make efforts to invest in regularly. Sometimes there’s a slip and the mindset changes to being fraught with stress, anger and hurt, but something always remains constant and brings me back to stoicism. Journalling.

I’ve kept a reflection journal for over a year, something that I started during what can only be described as a shit few months.

A year ago, two of my grandmothers passed away from terminal cancer within two months of each other, and I worked in an environment that was entirely driven by adrenaline. I continued to push myself hard to ‘succeed’ in reaching personal goals regardless of the cost, mainly to feel normal.

There was this intense pressure that I placed on myself to make everything seem okay, and like it wasn’t going to hold me back. My team were operating magnificently, I spoke at my first conference, I finished the paperwork for a green card (anyone who’s done this you’ll know how stressful it is) while trying to support my family and make the most of the time I had with them. Little of this was for the sake of appearances, but more to tell me this is fine, you’re okay, typical stiff upper lip, power through kind of stuff.

I wasn’t fine.

Then a very strange experience involving Tom Hiddleston changed how I thought about things.

I went to see Betrayal at the Pinter Theatre in London, and during the play, Tom’s character aggressively stabbed a piece of melon so hard it flew across the stage, and the play continued as though it was part of the plan. I laughed so much that I found it difficult to stop. Betrayal is a very dark comedy, and I found the darkness even funnier than usual. The personal situation that I found myself in seemed wrong, unpleasant, but all of a sudden like I would be able to manage, thanks to a piece of melon.

That act of the melon flying across the stage felt like a strong analogy for my situation. I wasn’t entirely helpless, but I needed to accept that there were some flying pieces of melon in my life. I thought if this situation is like a piece of melon, don’t ignore it and pretend it didn’t happen, don’t cause a scene over it, but pick it up and carry on.

After I left the theatre that night, I took out my notebook that I carried everywhere and I started to write how much that evening had meant to me, and most importantly why. I allowed myself to address my thoughts in writing, and assess why I was allowed to feel the way that I did, what I could learn from the situations and why they were important.

In the days after, I started reading my stoic philosophy texts more deeply and forcing myself to journal things both good, bad and indifferent. Make them into a learning experience or something positive. Nothing could remain bad or neutral — I had to learn from the experience, even how I process grief. It took a couple of weeks, but my mindset started to change, my relationship with the world changed.

Let’s be clear, I understood grief, I still knew that what watching people I care about in pain would still hurt, but I became more intent on keeping in tune with myself and understanding those emotions and feelings more deeply. To find a way to make everything else seem more understandable so that I could appreciate the love I had for them, and make the time for my own emotions to be recognized and embraced.

A year on, so much changed. My husband’s green card petition was approved, I now live in the US with him, and I have a copy of Betrayal permanently on my bedside table (it’s still one of my favourite pieces of written work, ever). But that leather-bound book that I carry everywhere has been a lifeline and something I have a strong sentimental attachment to. I can look back at what I learned a year ago to what I learned last week and see that I have changed, evolved and that I am growing with each experience.

As explained by so many stoic philosophers, I am ever a student; I see opportunity in challenge. Change is constant and how we view it is a matter of perspective; how we approach the lessons it tries to teach us is down to us.