Journal Like Your Confessing to God

By Stella Speridon-Violet

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You don’t need to believe in God to confess.

But you do need to believe in something. Not religion, something deeper. A version of yourself, only you know. A softness others don’t see in you. A truth so raw it could split you in half and still be holy.

When I say journal like you're confessing to God, I don’t mean performatively. I don’t mean writing the things that make you sound wise, or balanced, or good. I mean writing the things you wouldn’t say out loud if someone held a gun to your head. 

I mean telling the truth, not for the record, but for redemption.

We’ve glamorized journaling into something aesthetic. Pretty notebooks, pastel pens, gratitude lists that never mention grief. But real journaling is not curated. 

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It’s carved out. It’s the kind of writing that doesn’t ask, “Will I want to read this later?” but rather, “Will this save me if I do?”

Let’s be honest: most of us are haunted by things we never say. Feelings that don’t fit into casual conversation. Thoughts that linger in our minds, the kind of ones we only say out loud to an empty car or wall. 

So we suppress, distract, spiritual-bypass, or swallow it down. And eventually, we stop telling the truth even to ourselves.

That’s where this kind of journaling comes in.

Writing like you’re confessing to God doesn’t mean you’re repenting. It means you’re revealing. It means you’re tired of living a lie. It means you’re finally telling the page what you struggle to tell yourself. 

What does that sound like?

Maybe it’s admitting you have feelings for someone you shouldn’t, or that you did treat that one friend horribly, or that your crippling anxiety is getting the worst of you again. 

It’s ugly. It’s beautiful. It’s both.

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The page doesn’t flinch. It doesn’t shame you. It doesn’t say, “Well, you should be grateful,” or “That’s not very nice,” or “What if someone finds this?” The page says, Go on. The page says, More. The page says, Finally.

When you journal this way, like you're confessing to something bigger than you, the point isn’t to become someone new. The point is to become someone honest. The kind of person who could sit across from God, or your inner child, or your future self, and not feel the need to censor the truth.

Because the truth is what will carry you. It always has.

And maybe one day, when you're healed enough to read it back, you'll recognize the version of you who was brave enough to say what hurt. Maybe you’ll cry for her. Maybe you’ll thank her.

 Maybe you’ll write her back.

So tonight, forget structure. Forget self-help. Forget the bullet points and the neat resolutions.

Just journal like you’re confessing to God.

And let that be enough.