The Traveling Journal
And the Joy of Filling its Pages
Years ago, three college friends wanted a way to stay connected after life pulled us all in different directions.
The idea was simple.
Instead of writing letters back and forth, which is hard to maintain amongst three people, we chose a journal.
One book, shared between the three of us, living thousands of miles apart.
We wrote in it, tucked small gifts in between the pages and mailed it on to the next person when we were done. Then she did the same before sending it onward again — round and round it went.
What began as a collection of empty pages soon grew into a small time capsule of our early adult years, a record of the lives we were building on our separate ends of the country.
Before I go on, I should say plainly that most of the pages you see in this post are mine. I will never share the private writing of another person without their permission. What you see here is simply the outer shape of a shared practice, a glimpse of the journal that traveled between us without revealing the parts that were never meant for public eyes.
Starting was the hard part. Once you have the journal in your hands for the first time, it feels almost too blank, too open. You wonder what the others will think of what’s written. You wonder if your pages will be interesting enough, thoughtful enough or even long enough. But once you begin, the hesitation slowly dissolves.
A shared rhythm finds you. An empty page becomes a place to breathe.
A little gift pocket sewn into the front page became a place to store a ticket stub or a flower we’d pressed, or a couple bookmarks found at a cute shop. A scrap of wrapping paper became a memory.
It doesn’t take long at all before the journal begins to feel alive.
Letters are wonderful in their own right. They are their own little worlds of wonder, each sealed envelope carries a singular voice across distances. Clearly, letters mean a great deal to me — you can read just how much:
But a traveling journal is something else entirely. It holds not only the words we wrote, but little pieces of our daily lives. It became a place to record those small victories, heavy days, seasonal bucket lists and favorite books. It carried lists, recipes, doodles, pressed leaves, prayers, messy thoughts and moments too fleeting to justify a whole letter.
A journal like this can become a shared history. It can be polished or it can be informal. There is deep comfort in seeing another person’s handwriting fill the pages before yours, or in turning a page and finding a note tucked into the pages with your name on it. Within these pages are the scaffolding of beautiful friendships.
Of course, not everything lasts in the way we imagine. Our journal began with three of us, and for a season it moved easily, arriving in our mailboxes with a regularity that felt miraculous. Life changed, as it always does and eventually the journal rested for a while. One friend stepped away from the project and for a long time the journal stayed silent.
But the idea still lingered and years later it was revived between two of us. It became quieter, steadier and perhaps even more treasured because it had already lived one full life before beginning a second.
I share that because it is important to say that your first attempt at something like this might not go perfectly. It might stall. It might get lost for a year. It might even fall apart altogether. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth doing and it certainly doesn’t mean you can’t try again.
Shared creative work has seasons too.
One of my favorite parts of our journal was the way it strengthened every other form of communication between us. Because we had a physical place to share deeper things, we found ourselves texting and calling more often and sending silly snippets of our days.
The journal didn’t replace other types of connection. It enriched them. We saw more clearly into one another’s minds, our tone, our humor, our aspirations, our stress and our relief. The pages gave us space to breathe that texting never could.
And then there was the traveling itself. The physical movement of the journal from one home to another, across states and seasons, added a kind of excitement to the whole practice. The distance it traveled in a single trip reached more than two thousand miles between us. By the time we closed the final pages of that first journal, it had traveled far more than any of us!
It was carried to mailboxes, tucked into bags, taken to coffee dates, wrapped carefully in brown paper or sheet music or even sewn into fabric to be cheeky. Each round trip felt unique and exciting.
I hope you’re inspired to start a project like this. But with that, I would encourage a few simple guidelines, not as rules but as tiny guardrails.
A shared journal needs time to breathe, so resist the temptation to rush it. Give each person enough space to live a little before they write. Choose a loose schedule, something predictable but not strict, such as sending it along on the first day of every other month.
A rhythm like that helps the journal keep moving without anyone feeling overwhelmed. Tuck little fun bits inside it when you find flat knick knacks. Those small additions often become the most joyful parts.
The beauty of a traveling journal is that it holds more than words. It holds the ordinary days that would have disappeared otherwise. It holds the shared spaces between friends who might not live nearby anymore but still want to grow together.
If you love letters, you might find that you love this even more. A traveling journal is not fast, but it is full. It is hopeful. It is steady.
If you feel a tug to start something like this, take the risk. Ask two or even three people to join you. Heck, go nuts and share it with more! But be prepared to see it only once a year.
Pick a journal. Choose a rhythm. Send it out into the world. You might be surprised by the life it gathers on its way back to you.
And if your first try falters, try again. All of the most beautiful things in my life began with the second try.