Writing Myself Back
The Origin of Compassion Journalling
A warm welcome to everyone who has found their way to Self-Centred recently – I’m glad you’re joining me
After two years co-editing Lapidus International Magazine, I'm stepping down from my voluntary editorial role. Before moving on, I'd like to share a piece first published there – the story of how I came to develop my Compassion Journalling practice, and how it has helped me build self-trust and the courage to explore my voice here.
If you’re curious about Lapidus International or interested in getting involved – including taking on a voluntary editorial role – you can find out more about the organisation here and read the latest issue, on the theme of relationship, here. For any questions, get in touch at magazine@lapidus.org.uk
Plunged into full-on emergency mode, after weeks of sleep deprivation and emotional firefighting, the weight of my own grief and fears began to sink in. I longed for a mentor, a therapeutic guide, and a mother’s holding – none of which were available.
It had been over three years since my mother’s death and many more since she’d been able to nurture me in the way I now needed. Our family was facing a very different grief: the sudden death of a child, a close friend to one of our youngest, a death that blindsided us and felt all too close, shattering our sense of safety.
My inner wise voice meets the rawest parts of me, not with judgement or solution, but with a spaciousness, an almost nurturing holding.
The shock ricocheted through us and our community. The once near-certainty that our children would reach adulthood and likely outlive us was gone. My partner and I did what we could to create a nest of safety for our children in a world that had just shifted on its axis. I questioned whether it was selfish, or even feasible, to continue my studies. The work had been centred on reflective inquiry into internal conflict; already challenging, without a crisis unfolding that would touch every part of our family.
During that time, I happened across papers on Dialogical journal writing as ‘self-therapy’: ‘I matter’ and The Compassionate Mind that offered both a method and a renewed sense of purpose. Alongside continued reading on Compassion Focused Therapy, I began to explore what compassion and wisdom might be available within me – drawing on everything I had witnessed, read and absorbed. I reflected on which qualities of voice I could trust within every part of myself. These reflections became the foundation for an inner presence I would begin to turn to and build a relationship with through dialoguing with the page.
It helped me stay resilient during a time when I needed to remain strong and emotionally resilient for my family. It became the practice I now call Compassion Journalling, and I have been adapting and sharing with others ever since.
The approach involves writing in two voices – one expressing whatever fear, anger, or shame was present, the other offering a steady, compassionate response. Often, the voice speaks little, simply affirming the underlying fear and effort behind a struggle. My inner wise
voice meets the rawest parts of me, not with judgement or solution, but with a spaciousness that makes me feel nurtured and held.
Its quiet power was building self-kindness within me: I felt seen, listened to and accepted from within, both radically new and a form of reclamation. Through regular dialogue journalling, I came to recognise the compassionate wisdom and steady support as parts of myself. I was building a self-regulating internal space grounded in clarity and emotional safety.
Through this written dialoguing, my writing began to change. I noticed how I spoke to myself: through language, through how I treated my body, through quiet, persistent habits of dismissal and neglect that passed for coping. And I met myself with kindness.
As my relationship with this wise version of myself developed, I felt a shift. My confidence was growing, and I was able to hold space for myself. Crucially, it helped me stay present through the difficult circumstances enveloping me.
This crisis forced me to confront not just immediate loss, but the accumulated griefs I’d been carrying. At the time, I was already exploring different forms of grief, including the many ways we lose connection with ourselves and others. I began to notice how those griefs lived in my body. And as I did, my writing was changing from simply expressing to becoming a form of listening and holding space for myself.
I wanted to communicate more authentically – not just outwardly, but within myself. That desire led me into a deeper relationship with signals I’d long ignored: exhaustion, fear, resentment, and the cost of living disconnected from my body. These were the places I had felt silenced or compromised by others’ reactivity, leaving me disconnected and unheard.
This disconnection had deeper roots. Years earlier, I’d been diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND) – a condition that disrupts communication between brain and body, often emerging in the wake of trauma or prolonged stress. Forced to confront the cost of living from the neck up, since then my focus has been learning to manage my energy and build a sustainable life and practice.
Grief doesn’t always show up as tears. Sometimes it arrives as bone-deep exhaustion. As a near-constant gnawing in the gut. As involuntary movements – a head or limb jerking or giving way. Anything from full-body fitting to, once, although still conscious, being able to move only my eyelids. As shame. My body breaking down in ways I couldn’t predict or control, and the fear that my fracture lines were laid bare. I now understand FND as a response to internal conflict, exhaustion, and undiagnosed neurodiversity I had worked relentlessly to hide. At the time, I had no real concept of anxiety within myself. It didn’t fit with my external identity of calm competence – endless, unflappable multitasking. In fact, I kept raising the bar each time something began to feel too easy.
I’m learning just how many forms grief can take and how layered they can be. There’s the grief of death, but also the grief of fragmentation, of not being seen or understood. Some of my earliest griefs weren’t traditional losses. They were about feeling unrecognisable to the people I most wanted to connect with. That kind of grief leaves fragments of self, exiled inside.
In my own life, those griefs have included the slow, silent loss of my voice as I learnt to adjust, perform, and suppress parts of myself. There’s the loss of misrecognition, mine and others’, in the face of unacknowledged neurodivergence and trauma. And the gradual loss of my mother’s voice through the aphasia that accompanied her rare form of dementia.
Even chosen loss leaves its mark: walking away from inherited loyalties to protect peace, knowing that what’s unprocessed may return later in the ache of missed repair.
Despite my continued efforts, I still livefrom the neck up too often, a survival strategy I haven’t fully outgrown. In truth, it is often fear of the next reckoning rather than genuine self-care that first brings me back into line. But my body, when I let it, helps keep my goals sustainable, relationships healthy and work self-aligned. Sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully, it reminds me I’m not paying attention. Rather than fearing my body, I am slowly and inconsistently learning to welcome it as a trusted ally that always tells the truth, never too ashamed or afraid to see.
I remember the moment I realised those inner dialogues (colour-coded in different pens to help me track whose voice I was channelling) had begun to internalise. The conversations were no longer on the page alone. My previously critical voices grew quieter the more room I gave them to vent. I began to trust that my compassionate voice was becoming an integrated part of me.
For the first time, I felt I was caring for myself without shame. There was no fear of being self-indulgent, no urge to over-correct through rigorous self-interrogation. My compassionate voice held the best of my mother’s nurturing approach and my own, combined with that calming, grounded presence I admire in Carl Rogers’ work that is fully attentive and free from judgement.
In my personal practice, I think of this voice as my inner mother, though I
encourage participants to reflect on what image would feel most aligned for them. For me, it evokes the qualities of unconditional care and wisdom I was seeking. For others, it might be a wise friend, an elder, or simply their own most grounded self.
Having piloted the process with small groups, I now offer community courses, creating extended and inclusive multi-sensory versions that incorporate other therapeutic arts, designed to resonate across different life experiences. And I have noticed something that seemed subtle at first, but proves essential learning for my own practice. My wise, compassionate voice, the one that can feel so integrated and steady, starts to fade if I begin to let go of the structure of my journalling process in the belief it’s now fully part of me. It isn’t that the practice fails; it is that I stop actively developing my compassion-building muscle and fall back into old habits of stonewalling my body and defensive self-talk riddled with criticism and contempt.
This practice is teaching me that healing isn’t something I can arrive at but an ongoing relationship with myself. Compassion Journalling continues to be my anchor; it helps me attune to and trust my internal wisdom. It reminds me that self-nurture doesn’t lead to selfishness or complacency; it builds the resilience I need to show up with authenticity, boundaries, and compassion.
An Invitation
Take a few minutes to reflect on how you typically speak to yourself when facing a challenge.
Jot down some phrases you might say to yourself – without judgement, just noticing.
Now imagine a dear friend came to you with the same challenge. What tone would you use? What words? Write these down too.
Notice any differences between. What might it feel like to offer yourself even a small portion of that same kindness?
Feel free to share what came up in the comments, or keep it for yourself – both are welcome.
Thank you for posting your article. I was reminded of how valuable it was the first time I read it.