Five years of morning pages

Much ado about nothing and everything.

Every morning I journal three pages by hand.

Some days I don't, but most days I do.

Writing morning pages is the only habit I've ever successfully built that didn't have an addictive chemical or necessary bodily function attached. I write morning pages the same way I drink coffee or brush my teeth—as an inevitable daily ritual and an act of spiritual hygiene.

I started in 2020. My career was in free fall, we were still disinfecting our groceries, and most days I felt too afraid to step outside. If you've spent any amount of time around a group of creative people, chances are you know what happened next.

The practice of writing three pages each day by hand does, of course, originate at least in modern parlance from Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way. Maybe you've gone through it, too. Maybe you bought a copy, then three weeks in forgot it existed.

Five years in, I can say with assurance that I only finished The Artist's Way because I did it in a group that I myself organized and led. I'm not sure I would've completed all twelve weeks had I attempted it on my own or even as a participant in someone else's group.¹

I’ve been a journaler for most of my life, but before The Artist’s Way I typically only wrote in moments of distress. Once, after leaving an unhealthy relationship, I was shocked to find that I’d gone years without writing anything at all.

I believe this is a source of a lot of the resistance to journaling. Morning pages are, for me, a daily act of self-confrontation, which can be a lot to bear when you’re avoiding a hard truth or existing in survival mode. The fact that I’ve written them so consistently through the entire first half of the decade is a personal triumph.

Vision Week starts tomorrow! If you’d like to join us for three days of salon-style conversations about time, money, and energy, you can grab a ticket here.

Writing morning pages is a private habit, but every so often I share an AirBNB or have to take up space at a friend's dining room table, which inevitably leads to questions.

"What do you write about?" is the most common one people ask. The answer, each time, is as cliche as it is earnest: I wake up every day to write about nothing and everything all at once.

Over the years, without noticing, I've developed an almost superstitious rhythm. I always start with the date and a placement.

Sunday, January 12, 2025

Sitting at my desk again.

What follows is what you'd probably call a "brain dump," but even in that I've become predictable. Page one is typically exposition about my to-do list for the day.

I need to send an email and finish writing that sales page for (CLIENT). I have a meeting at 11, which is about 45 minutes from now, so I'd like to try and finish these pages and send off that email beforehand. I also need to unload the dishwasher and switch the laundry before it starts to smell. What else? Yesterday I finished…

By page two, I might start confronting some larger doubt or insecurity. (If I haven't written for a while, it's usually because I'm avoiding this part.)

I'm still feeling weird about that conversation from a few days ago. I feel like I came on too strong and now I'm worried I've made everything awkward. I don't know what to do to make it right again. I’m afraid that they’ll think I’m annoying…

Page three, of course, is where the magic happens.

One of my first clients Rachel Simmons would often say that writing offers you "critical distance from your own thoughts."

To this day, I have yet to find a better way to describe what happens on page three of my morning pages.

By the third page, roughly 25 minutes into the practice (barring any interruptions or distracted dalliances with the day’s Spelling Bee puzzle), I've typically achieved at least some small distance between what I'm thinking and who I am. This means that by page three I am usually coaching myself.

I think all I can do is try and be mindful and honest. It's okay that I didn't know what to say in the moment. I have to remember that everyone is on their own journey and comes to every conversation with their own memories and experiences.

In the last few lines of that final page, I am always thanking God. If I'm particularly worried, I might spend the last half of the third page entirely in prayer.

Thank you God for my family. Thank you God for Iba. Thank you God for my friends, for my life, for the pets, for this home. Thank you God for listening, again.

Writing morning pages transformed my creative practice. It makes my weekly somatic therapy sessions much more impactful and challenging. (When you spend dedicated time each day thinking through your own feelings in words, it's all the more important, I’m learning, to bring that process into the body.)

For the last five years, my three-page-a-day habit has helped me build my business and create a prolific amount of work, both for content and personal projects. My morning pages, originally kept in spiral Decomposition books and now organized by season in my Remarkable tablet, serve as a personal archive.

These pages are the canon of my life. When an astrologer says to think about how I felt three years ago during a particular Full Moon, I can turn to a page and remember exactly how I felt.

When I don't know what to do or who to turn to, I turn to my magic stone tablet and write directly to God.

Writing morning pages takes time. It requires effort. Like with a movement practice, I notice when I don't do it. Which is exactly how I know it's good for me.

When you can isolate a variable and see the positive impact it has on your well-being, it's easier to return to it. Five years in, I have a surplus of evidence that proves: When I write my morning pages, I am a more grounded, self-compassionate, emotionally regulated human being.

Which is why today, on this second Sunday in January, moments before our first Full Moon of the year, I figured I might as well share a lesson from today's third page.

You don't have to do it forever.

You don't have to do it "right."

You just have to decide to try.

1. Side note: This is why I now believe that the best way to do The Artist's Way is in a 12-person circle, with weekly meetings and each participant owning the responsibility of one week's discussion. Those who have the easiest time with commitment or self-discipline own the first few weeks, and those who tend to fall off of habits own the second half. This ensures that, no matter what, everyone has a chance to come back and try again.