Grief has a way of arriving without instructions.
One minute you are functioning. The next, you are staring into space at 2am, wondering what you are meant to do with yourself now that everything feels different.
Fresh grief is foggy. Heavy. Disorientating. It comes with a strange mix of numbness and overwhelm, and an unhelpful pressure to cope in a way that looks acceptable from the outside.
If you are here because things are still raw, I want to say this first: journalling is not another thing you have to do well.
It does not need to be neat, insightful, spiritual, consistent, or brave. It does not need to turn into a habit, a keepsake, or a path to clarity.
Sometimes, it is simply somewhere to put what you are carrying.
Grief Is Not Linear and Neither Is Journalling
There is no correct order to grief. No steady arc. No tidy phases you can tick off and move past.
One day you might feel functional. The next, completely undone. Journalling does not have to smooth that out or make sense of it.
There are no daily streaks required here. No pressure to process properly. No gold stars for showing up every morning with a pen and a clear intention.
Some days you might write a page. Some days a sentence. Some days nothing at all.
You are allowed to write nonsense. You are allowed to write anger. You are allowed to open the notebook, stare at it, and close it again.
Silence counts too.
Journalling as a Container for Big Feelings
One of the hardest parts of early grief is that the thoughts do not stop looping.
The same memories. The same questions. The same what-ifs and if-onlys, circling at the worst possible moments.
Journalling can act as a container. Somewhere to put those thoughts so they are not rattling around your head at 3am.
It can be especially useful when you do not want to trauma dump on the people you love. When you are tired of explaining. When you do not have the energy to manage someone else’s reaction to your pain.
On the page, you do not need to soften anything. You do not need to be reassuring. You do not need to make sense.
You can write without needing a response.
When Words Feel Hard
Sometimes grief takes language away.
If full sentences feel impossible, that is okay. Journalling does not have to look like paragraphs.
You can write lists.
Single sentences.
Bullet points.
Half-thoughts.
Words that trail off and go nowhere.
You can also move beyond words entirely.
Glue something in. Tear paper. Add colour. Scribble. Black out a page. Make a mess. Scrapbook your way through it.
Creative journalling can help when talking feels too much and thinking feels too loud. It gives your hands something to do when your head is exhausted.
There is no right format. Only what feels manageable in that moment.
You Do Not Need to Re-read It
This matters more than people realise.
When grief is fresh, the idea of re-reading your own words can feel unbearable. You might worry about what you are writing. About whether it is too dark, too repetitive, too much.
You do not need to go back.
Journalling is the act, not the archive. At least for now.
Writing it down can be enough. Closing the notebook can be part of the ritual. You are allowed to let the words exist only in that moment.
Nothing needs to be saved. Nothing needs to be turned into insight.
Grief Changes, and Journalling Changes With It
Early grief journalling often looks different from what comes later.
At first, it might be fragmented. Heavy. Focused on survival and getting through the day.
Later, it might soften. Shift. Make room for memories, reflections, or questions about who you are becoming now.
Your journal will evolve as you do. And there is no timeline for when that happens.
Journalling will not fix grief. It will not make the loss disappear or wrap it up neatly.
But it can make space.
Space to breathe.
Space to keep going.
Space to exist alongside the grief, rather than being swallowed by it.
And sometimes, in the middle of the night, that is enough.
