My friend handed me a pen and a blank piece of paper across the cafe table.
“Just write,” he said. “Whatever’s in your head.”
I was so obviously stressed that even our casual catch-up couldn’t hide it. I resisted. I barely had time to keep myself together. I had apartment applications to finish, financial aid to figure out, and an entire life to pack up and restart. Ten minutes for journaling felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford. Besides, what would writing accomplish? My problems wouldn’t disappear just because I wrote them down.
But he insisted.
So I wrote.
I wrote about the money—how much I’d have to spend upfront for business school, how much I’d need to loan even after my family helped. I wrote about watching my friends go to their full-time jobs while I was about to become a broke student again. I wrote about feeling like I was the only one going through this ordeal, even though I knew, logically, that everyone struggles with different things. I sketched out an ideal path through my MBA with no clear leads, just desperate planning. I validated my own thoughts, argued with myself, spiraled and then steadied.
When I put the pen down, I felt like I’d taken 200 pounds off my shoulders.
Nothing had changed physically. My work visa still hadn’t worked out. I was still leaving my full-time job. I was still about to drain my savings to go back to school. But something fundamental had shifted: I could SEE my thoughts instead of just drowning in them.
The Life That Fell Apart
A few months earlier, I thought I had it figured out. I had a job, a routine, a life that made sense. Wake up, go to the office, come home, exercise, maybe end the day with a nice drink. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine, and it was stable.
Then my long-awaited work visa didn’t work out.
Suddenly, I was staring at a choice I never wanted to make: leave everything behind or go back to school. I chose the MBA—not because I was ready, but because it was the only path forward that didn’t feel like complete surrender.
The excitement was real. Getting to be a student again, to experiment, to reinvent myself—there was something electric about that possibility. But underneath it all was this aching grief. I MISSED my family in Vietnam every single day, so much so that giving up this independent life in the US seemed reasonable amid all this visa chaos. I missed the security of a paycheck. I missed the simple rhythm of a 9-to-5. I sometimes wished I could wake up the next day and just… go back to normal.
Instead, I was broke again after finally having money. Uncertain again after finally feeling stable. And the thoughts—God, the thoughts—wouldn’t stop screaming in my head.
What It Actually Looked Like
Let me be clear: my early journal entries were a mess.
They were stream-of-consciousness dumps, bullet-pointed fears, and mixed with half-formed solutions that probably made no sense. Some nights I wrote pages. Other nights, just a few lines. Sometimes it was the same worry written differently: I miss my family. Why does this feel so hard? I should just leave all these behind and go back to Vietnam.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t Instagram-worthy. It was just… real.
And somehow, that was exactly what I needed.
The Shift
Here’s what I discovered in those ten minutes before bed: when you write your anxiety down, you can separate the noise from the signal.
All day long, my thoughts would loop: money, visa, future, failure, family, alone, money, visa… It was like a broken record playing in my head at full volume, and I couldn’t turn it off.
But when I wrote it down, I could SEE it. My inner self was screaming, begging to be witnessed. Not fixed, not solved, not reasoned with. Just… seen.
The thoughts didn’t disappear. But they stopped screaming quite so loud.
After a few weeks, I started to crave those ten minutes before bed. Messy, anxious, uncertain, but at least honest.
So, what I learned was—It’s okay to be bad at journaling. It’s okay to repeat yourself. It’s okay to write about the most selfish thoughts you have in your mind. EVERYONE HAS SOME OF THOSE. The point isn’t to produce something profound. The point is to give your inner self a place to be SEEN, not just heard.
Because that’s what was happening in my head all along.
Where I Am Now
I’d say I’m making it through just fine. The MBA journey turned out to be worth every anxious night, every moment of uncertainty, every entry where I ugly-cried onto the page. Now, I’ve got my project management apps to organize my thoughts; I have my sense of direction to know what comes next.
And sometimes I go back and read those old entries from the hardest months. It feels good, honestly, to see how far I’ve come.
To remember that version of me who felt so lost and realize: she found her way.
If You’re In It Right Now
Maybe you’re facing a layoff. Maybe you can’t find a job after graduation. Maybe you’re moving to a new city where you don’t know anyone. Maybe your visa fell through, or your relationship ended, or your plan completely fell apart.
Maybe you think you don’t have time for journaling. That’s what I thought too.
But your inner self is screaming right now, even if you can’t hear it clearly through all the noise and the panic and the endless to-do lists. And it’s begging to be seen.
You don’t need a beautiful journal. Write the fears. Write the rants. Write “I don’t know what I’m doing” fifty times if that’s what’s true. Write about money, write about loneliness, write about how much you miss your old life or your family or the version of yourself who felt more certain.
Just write it down. Let yourself see it.
Nothing will change physically. Your problems will still be there tomorrow. But I promise you this: something fundamental will shift. The weight will lighten, just a little. The thoughts will quiet, just enough.
And that might be exactly what you need to make it through to the other side.
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