Journaling a Family Legacy
In a world that so often feels uncertain and unstable, putting my pen to paper steadies me. The act of journaling creates this pause place where I can breathe. Like it’s my oxygen tank.
Breathe in. Reflect.
Breathe out. Write.
Journaling may not always bring in certainty but it opens a space to how I navigate my life within the vortex of this chaotic world or an uncertain situation or emotion.
I am at the center of that world and journaling is often my True North. Whether it’s checking in to see why my gut is roiling from a certain comment or situation or seeking guidance from a dream.
Or writing a daily post for self-awareness and personal story. Thickening the memory with sensory details and analyzing the feelings surrounding it so I understand me and prioritize what matters in my life.
It’s releasing the toxins of negative thoughts, placing my grief or sadness somewhere for a while so again I can:
Breathe in. Write.
Breathe out. Live my greatest life.
It’s also a family legacy. From the moment I was pregnant with Nick, I have kept a journal to him and then to both ‘my boys’ when Stephen was born. 28 years later, my legacy of love to them has grown.
My Family Legacy to my sons.
2/9/1995 First Journal Entry of the Cammarata Journals
Well, it has finally happened. I’m pregnant with you and you are my first baby. Your father and I have been waiting for this day for over two years. I told your father at 7am that I was going to the store. I picked up a test. I came home and drank a lot of water so I could go to the bathroom. Your dad was making pancakes. The test was positive.
I came out and said, “Luke, I think I’m pregnant.”
He said, “You do?” and he held me.
I never had such shaky knees.
Those written words morphed into scrapbooking when I decided that I wanted photos and newspaper clipping to enhance those memories. Those scrapbooks also included photos and news of family members and friends. The joke was that if anyone wanted to see their child’s milestones, they only had to look in the scrapbooks.
Their first scrapbook.
My personal journal held me as I poured my pain and despair into its nonjudgmental pages, lamenting the loss of Nick. That first-born who would never read the words meant for him. But as I’ve read through the pages of their childhood, I am soothed by memories of the joy and laughter in our home.
At Nick’s service, their scrapbooks were displayed so that everyone would know my son. What mattered to him. What made him laugh. What hobbies, movies, books, music he loved, who was a part of his life.
When I read my boys’ journals, I see the transitions and transformations of a mother who couldn’t fathom living without her child to a woman who not only built muscle to carry her grief but also learned to place it aside to see and experience joy. I see the wonder that my children have brought into this world.
Journaling. That physical act of writing—connects me to both my sons in the same way that pregnancy did. It’s this umbilical cord of memory that, even when severed, remains in the words.