I’m really thankful for the year in elementary we had to write at least a page in our journal weekly. Reading it now, I can see how I thought, and I can see what I was like, and the past experiences I had.
It’s like a manual to happiness—I thought so simply and I was straightforward but well-meaning. Just reading it makes me happy. I can learn to think like that again.
As a kid I didn’t over-complicate things, I didn’t worry about what other people thought (while not being evil. Sometimes.), I went straight to the point of how I felt instead of turning it into an art project like a poem. I let myself feel emotions. I didn’t think, “I shouldn’t feel that way,” or “I shouldn’t think like that.” I was on my own side.
Even though I wasn’t well liked some of the time, I could tell from reading my entries that I was never purposefully malicious.
I was honest about how I felt, even though it might be a little rude, but not outright trying to hurt people with what I said.
I didn’t fake positivity. If I thought an event I went to was boring, I said I was bored, and I accepted that I was bored. If I was disappointed, I just accepted that I was disappointed; no trying to find the silver-lining or something.
But also I allowed myself to feel happy for the mundane or the weird or, naturally, “cringe” things.
I think in my pursuit of self-improvement, I’ve put myself under immense pressure to turbo-boost myself into progress. But that just might be counter-productive.