The Day the Pages Stopped: Why I Gave Up Journaling as a Child

There are some memories that don’t just haunt you —
they shape you.
They sneak back into your spirit when you least expect them,
carrying a heaviness you thought you’d already put to rest.
Today was one of those days.

I was scrolling on TikTok — just mindlessly passing the time —
when a woman appeared on my screen, talking about the moment she found out her mother had read her childhood journal.
Her mom had written inside the journal… confessing she’d read it.
And when this woman shared that betrayal,
a shock ran down my spine.
My whole body remembered.

I had a flashback —
not to something I had forgotten, but to something I had long buried.

✍🏽 A Safe Place That Felt Like Freedom

It’s easy to downplay things like childhood journaling —
but when you grow up in chaos, words can become your safest place.
They were mine.

That year, I was living with my Aunt Ruthie and my grandmother in Euless, Texas.
Just outside of Dallas.
And for the first time, I felt like I could breathe.

There was always someone home when I got off the school bus.
There was always food on the stove.
I never had to wonder if someone was coming back for me.

It was consistent. Warm. Predictable.
Something a lot of people might call normal.
But for me? It was everything.

That was the year I fell in love with writing.
Every day after school, I’d race to the kitchen, pull out my hidden journal from between the recipe books, and let my thoughts pour out onto the page. It was my ritual. My sanctuary. My safe, secret place.

And then it was gone.

🥀 When Your Voice Becomes a Punchline

The day my mother came to visit, I was excited.
Despite everything, I was still her daughter.
Still hoping to be seen, still aching to be loved the way I remembered before the divorce.

Because things did change.
Before the split, she was nurturing. She braided my hair, ran my baths, made me feel held.
But after?
It was like someone had taken her soul and left only the shell.
She was distant, cold — emotionally unavailable in a way that burned deeper than any bruise.

So when I heard she was coming to visit, part of me lit up.
Maybe she missed me.
Maybe she’d be proud of how I was thriving.
Maybe she’d hold me like before.

Instead, I walked into the apartment and was met with laughter.
Not joy — ridicule.

My cousin Shelle and my mother were reading my journal out loud.
Loud enough for the room to hear.
Laughing at my private thoughts — as intimate as a fourth-grader could manage.

That was the moment my sanctuary crumbled.
And with one cruel laugh, I lost my love for writing.
Not because I didn’t want to write anymore — but because I no longer felt safe doing it.

😔 The Betrayal of Being a Child Without Boundaries

What they did wasn’t harmless.
It was humiliating.
And it was a deep betrayal of trust — one that changed me.

Because no one — no one — wants their thoughts read out loud without consent.
Not an adult. Not a teenager. And certainly not a child.

“A child’s journal is their private world. Reading it without consent can result in shame, mistrust, and a ruptured sense of autonomy.”
— Dr. Laura Markham, Clinical Psychologist

“Emotionally unsafe environments create long-lasting effects on a child’s development, particularly their sense of self-worth and ability to trust.”
— Bessel van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score

And for anyone wondering if this is “too deep” — I want to remind you:
Children are not your property.
They are human beings.
With emotional boundaries. With dignity.
With tender hearts that deserve protection.

What happened that day wasn’t just embarrassing — it was damaging.
It planted a seed of silence that took years to unearth.
It made me afraid to be seen — even on paper.

🌱 Why I Write Now

This blog?
It exists because I’m reclaiming what was stolen.
Because I am done handing over my voice to people who never valued it.
Because I want little Shakara to know that her thoughts matter.
That her words are sacred.
That her story deserves to be told — by her, not at her expense.

So if you’re a parent reading this:
Please don’t read your child’s journal.
And if you do, don’t ever let them find out.
Because that moment could cost them years of silence.

And if you’re someone like me —
someone who lost their voice in the laughter of others,
someone who’s still learning to feel safe with a pen in their hand —
I want you to know:

Your words are worthy.
Your voice is sacred.
And you never have to ask permission to exist.

You are not too sensitive.
You were just never protected the way you should have been.

But you can protect yourself now.
With every word. With every truth. With every post.

And I’ll be here, writing alongside you.

— Shakara