They say life doesn’t hand you a manual, but I think they missed the fine print: life does hand out lessons, often disguised as awkward moments, stumbles, and—if you’re lucky—your mom’s blunt advice delivered over oxtail and rice. My lesson arrived in the form of a small habit, one that taught me to slow down, tune in, and ultimately saved me from myself in both life and love. Spoiler alert: it had nothing to do with soul-searching retreats or self-help books.

Nope, the habit that saved me was deceptively simple—keeping a journal. Before you roll your eyes and scroll away faster than a bad Tinder pick-up line, hear me out. This wasn’t some teenage diary where I wrote love songs (though 14-year-old me did have bars) or poured out woe-is-me sob stories. Nope, this was different. This was about accountability, about reflection, and about fighting my tendencies to move too fast and feel too little.

Let me explain how one small notebook, some honesty, and a bit of humor reshaped my approach to love, relationships, and life itself.

Flirting With Myself: How It All Began

I blame my mom, honestly. Growing up in our Jamaican household, there was a constant emphasis on being “intentional” with everything—your work, your words, your life. (Trust me, when you hear fi true?—a “did you mean it?”—as much as I did, you start thinking about the weight of intention.) But in the hustle of my 20s, burning through policy briefs by day and bad first dates by night, I had absolutely no downtime for reflection.

It was around this time that one of those dates—memorable only because of its disaster—ended with a friend asking me, “Why does it always feel like you’re rushing? Like you're three rooms ahead in your mind?” Brutal, right? But she wasn’t wrong. I was so focused on what was next—next meeting, next project, next date—I wasn’t in anything.

Cue my attempt at journaling. What started as a half-hearted habit to catalog work wins (“good turnout for the education bills hearing”) ironically became a mirror I wasn’t prepared for. One night, I flipped back through entries that, in theory, should’ve reflected some of my best moments—promotions, new projects, dating someone “promising”—only to realize my tone remained the same: detached, flat, and vaguely disappointed. Where was the joy? Where was Marcus?

I swore right then to use the same journal for something more than facts—I’d use it to hold myself accountable for my feelings.

The Habit Rules: One Page, No Filter, All Truth

Here’s the thing about journaling for accountability—it works only if you’re real with yourself. So, I made rules:

  1. One page per day: Like relationships, it works best if you don’t overcomplicate things. If my Moleskine wasn’t handy, I’d use my Notes app and transfer it later. (Do I recommend physical journals? Yes. Digital notes lack romance, and honestly, who wants to do a heartfelt vulnerability dump next to a notification about “hot singles near you”?)
  2. No filter allowed: If I was petty, I wrote about it. If I acted out of pocket on a date, into the journal it went. And if I realized I was holding on to something—a grudge, an idea, or even a crush I knew wasn’t serving me—I wrote myself through it until it made sense.
  3. All feelings, big or small: Journaling forced me to break my bad habit of labeling emotions as either “worth it” or “a distraction.” Spoiler: they’re all worth it if they’re yours.

Let me not sugarcoat it—it was not cute at first. Reading back those early entries was humbling. You ever realize mid-sentence that you might, in fact, be the problem? I did. Turns out, my tendency to avoid vulnerability was hiding in plain sight like a rom-com twist you knew was coming. My journal didn’t just record my days—it called me out.

Love, Jamaican Style: Lessons Learned Along the Way

Over time, the habit didn’t just save me from bad relationships—it taught me how to build good ones. Turns out, emotional accountability isn’t just a journal thing—it’s a relationship thing too. Here’s what this habit really taught me about dating:

  • Stop auditioning. Growing up, I thought love was about proving myself—first to my parents, then to others. But journaling forced me to ask: what would it feel like if I stopped trying to perform? Turns out, it feels like peace.
  • Feel your feelings. Somewhere between managing congressional staffers and avoiding my own emotional mess, I forgot how to sit with my feelings. It’s wild how good people are at picking up on that. (Pro tip: vulnerability is not a weakness. Write that down. Literally.)
  • Patterns don’t lie. When you journal regularly, you notice patterns—good and bad. Like, maybe you always swipe right on the “free spirit” type when what you’re really craving is stability. Or maybe you keep circling the same arguments because you’re avoiding the real thing beneath them. Ignoring patterns is like ignoring bad CGI—it’s very visible and only gets worse with time.

Even my therapist (shout-out to Dr. Osei, the most unflinchingly direct woman on the planet) noted how much clearer I was about expressing what I wanted out of therapy, and, by extension, out of life. I was no longer showing up confused or defensive. I knew where I stumbled and where I triumphed.

And you know what's wild? The more comfortable I got sitting with myself, the easier it became to sit with someone else. It's like my failures and fears stopped being barricades and became bridges instead.

Turning the Page: A Habit That Keeps Giving

This one seemingly tiny habit trickled into other parts of my life too. It re-taught me the value of pause in a culture that glorifies constant motion (thank you, grind culture). It also reminded me of the beauty of documenting moments, even when they don’t feel Instagram-worthy.

But most importantly, it taught me that meaningful connections start with the one person you’re guaranteed to be with forever: yourself. That knowledge—not the journaling itself—is what saved me. It reminded me what I’m made of: the imperfect striving of my Jamaican parents, the wit of D.C. barbershops, and yes, even the resilience of a thirty-something romantic trying to keep the DMs light.

Will journaling save everyone? Probably not. But maybe it’s not about the habit itself. Maybe it’s about doing the thing that reconnects you with who you are, in whichever way works for you. For me? It was a notebook and the honesty to fill it.

So, here’s my challenge: Find your equivalent. Whether it’s morning walks, voice notes, or over-ambitious lasagna recipes, do the thing that slows you down long enough to hear yourself. Trust me. It won’t just save you—it might save your relationships too.

And who knows? You might just make your mom proud in the process. Fi true.