In 2020, one of the darkest and most challenging times of my life unfolded when suicide claimed the life of my eldest son, Harrison. The depth of that loss is something words can hardly capture. When I lost Harrison, it felt like a part of me died with him. He was not just my child, but also a significant piece of my identity. His absence tore through the very essence of who I thought I was, leaving me shattered in ways I had never imagined possible. With him, my ability to create, to journal, and to help others—my purpose in life—seemed to vanish.

For as long as I can remember, helping others had been the cornerstone of my identity. I thrived on offering support, guidance, and a listening ear. Journaling was a major part of that process; it was how I sorted through my own emotions, found clarity, and stayed grounded. I would pour my thoughts, my fears, my hopes, and my reflections onto paper, using words as a tool for healing and growth. It was my lifeline and a way to make sense of my internal world. But after Harrison's death, that lifeline snapped. My thoughts, once neatly laid out on the page, now swirled in an uncontrollable storm. I couldn’t journal anymore. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t create. My purpose—my very reason for being—felt lost.

The grief was paralyzing, and without the ability to fulfill my purpose, I began questioning who I really was. Without journaling, without being able to help others, and without my ability to create, I felt empty, as if I were a mere shell of the person I once knew. I was adrift in an overwhelming sea of pain and loss, and I couldn’t find my anchor. I remember staring at blank pages in my journal, the pen heavy in my hand, unable to lift it. The very thing that had brought me so much peace and clarity in the past now felt like an impossible task.

Then one night, at around 4 a.m., unable to sleep and consumed by my grief, I found myself doing something I hadn’t done before. In that raw moment of anguish, I picked up my phone and hit record. I started talking. I had no plan, no script, no intention of doing anything with the video other than simply speaking into the void. I just talked about how I was feeling, about the unbearable pain, the confusion, the anger, the guilt—everything I had been bottling up. I let it all pour out, unscripted and unfiltered. I wasn’t thinking about how it sounded or whether anyone would ever see it. I just needed to express myself somehow.

After recording for what felt like hours, I played it back. As I watched myself on the screen, something strange happened. I saw a reflection of my grief that I couldn’t quite put into words. It wasn’t just what I was saying—it was my body language, my tone of voice, the tears that had silently fallen down my cheeks. I was seeing myself in a way I never had before. It was as though the camera captured not just my words but the deep, emotional undercurrents that I had been struggling to understand. It hit me that video could do something that writing couldn’t always capture: the nuances of non-verbal expression. The hesitation in my voice, the cracks when I spoke Harrison’s name, the way my hands clenched into fists—it was all there, laid bare in front of me.

After several hours of recording and replaying those videos, I began to wonder—who else had gone through this type of pain? Surely I wasn’t the only one feeling this level of despair, this loss of purpose. If I shared my experience, would someone else share theirs with me? And in that sharing, could we possibly help and support each other? The idea that my experience might resonate with someone else, that my pain might be understood by another person who had walked a similar path, gave me a glimmer of hope. Perhaps I wasn’t as alone as I felt.

It was then that I truly embraced the practice of **video journaling**. Whenever I couldn’t put my emotions into words on paper, I turned to video. It became my new form of journaling, allowing me to express myself in a way that felt raw and honest. For me, **video journaling** wasn’t just about documenting my thoughts—it became a way to see myself and my emotions in real-time. It allowed me to track my grief, my progress, and my healing, in a way that writing simply couldn’t. It’s a visual and auditory record of my journey, capturing the moments when words alone failed me.

**Video journaling** is the practice of recording yourself on video to capture your thoughts, reflections, and experiences, much like you would with written journaling. However, there is a key difference: video journaling allows for the expression of emotions beyond words. It captures the subtle nuances of tone, facial expressions, and body language, which can convey so much more than text ever could. It’s an expressive and powerful way to document emotions, track personal growth, or even share insights with others.

For those of us who struggle to put our emotions into writing, video journaling is an alternative that taps into a different type of self-reflection. You get to see yourself—not just the words you would normally write—but the real, visceral emotions that accompany them. It’s especially powerful for capturing non-verbal cues that can be overlooked in writing. Watching yourself back on video can give you a deeper understanding of what you’re truly feeling and allow you to confront emotions that might otherwise be buried.

Through **video journaling**, I found a way to express my grief, document my healing, and reconnect with my purpose. It didn’t happen overnight, and it wasn’t a magical solution. But it gave me a way to keep moving forward when traditional journaling felt impossible. In time, it became more than just a way to express my pain—it became a way to reflect on my growth, to see how far I had come, and to remind myself that even in my darkest moments, I was still moving forward, one small step at a time.

As I continued this practice, I started to feel more connected to myself again. I began to rediscover my ability to help others by sharing my experiences through video. I realized that by being vulnerable and open with my journey, I might encourage others to do the same. Video journaling allowed me to bridge that gap—to not only process my grief but to offer it as a beacon of hope for others walking through their own struggles.

In the end, **video journaling** became more than just a tool for personal reflection—it became a way for me to heal and to reconnect with my purpose of helping others. And perhaps, through sharing my story and my pain, I might inspire others to do the same, so that together, we can help and support one another through life’s hardest moments.