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Fifty years ago, when I was 17 and in rehab, my therapist gave me a journal. Her name was Norma. She suggested that I write one page every night. At the time, I barely knew who I was or where my life was headed. I was learning about myself and about recovery. I had no road map and little reason to believe things would work out. I never imagined a journal would become part of my life for the next five decades.

I didn’t write every day. Some nights I wrote for an hour. Other nights the journal just sat there. There were years I barely opened it. But I never stopped writing; I always came back. I couldn’t really tell you why. It just helped.

Today, I have 81 journals. Their pages are filled with pieces of a life of recovery, love, hope, growth, loss, and change. When I look at them, I don’t just see words on pages. I see a woman figuring it out. The journals speak of fear, hope, heartbreak, despair, friendship, grief, anger, joy, and all the feelings that make up a life. Some were written when I was........

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