For the past few years I’ve kept a diary. Just one line a day: a summary of happenings, to look back on and remember life as it once was. An attempt to capture those small moments that add up to life.
Walking by the river
Dancing round the kitchen
First smiles, steps, sounds
Snapshots of family life.
Handwriting is a clue. It tells you so much in an instant – an unwitting psychological profile. Mine is neat. For the year following my traumatic birth, it was also small. Very small.
At first, I didn’t like seeing how tiny the words were on the page – it felt like a reminder of those tough days. But now, my writing is bigger again. It’s also quite a lot messier.
Now, it’s visible evidence of post-traumatic growth. I was small, and now I am bigger. I was diminished and now I am stronger.
My writing has many more pages to fill…
