How to Start a Grief Journal (Even If You Feel Too Broken to Write)

Feeling lost in grief? This tender guide shows you how a grief journal—even messy, wordless pages—can help you breathe again, one entry at a time.

A real-life guide to writing through loss—with no rules, no pressure, just you and the page.

Grief is weird, isn’t it?

One minute you’re folding laundry, and the next—bam. You’re crying over a cardigan. Or a certain song. Or the smell of their shampoo still lingering on the old jumper you haven’t washed in months. Because it still smells like them.

It hits out of nowhere. And when it does, you don’t always know what to do with it.

I’ll be honest—I didn’t think I’d be the journaling type. Felt too much like homework. But somewhere between the sleepless nights and the silent car rides, I cracked open a notebook. No plan. No prompt. Just picked up whatever was nearby and started scribbling.

And weirdly? That notebook became a kind of lifeline.

That, my friend, is what we call a grief journal. It’s not fancy. It doesn’t need colour-coded tabs or an aesthetic TikTok cover. It just needs to hold your mess. The aching bits. The confused bits. Even the tiny sparks of joy that sneak in when you least expect them.

So if you’re sitting there wondering where to start—pull up a chair. This is the chat I wish someone had with me when I was staring at a blank page.

What Even Is a Grief Journal?

Let’s strip it back.

It's whatever you need it to be. A grief journal is your space. No pressure. No rules. Just a scruffy, private corner of the world where your feelings can breathe. You don’t have to be poetic. You don’t even have to write full sentences. One day might be a letter. The next? A list of things that made you cry whilst Christmas shopping in Tesco. (True story.)

It’s not about being wise or deep. It’s about being honest. If your grief had a voice today—what would it say? That’s your entry, that's what you write about.

Still finding your footing? You might also like this gentle guide on coping with grief, filled with practical strategies and real-life support.

But… Why Bother?

Good question, I asked myself the same thing. What good does writing stuff down do, how can it help when your heart’s broken? Here’s the thing: grief is heavy. Proper, weight-in-your-bones heavy. And when you bottle it up, it gets heavier.

Journaling—even if it's messy, angry, repetitive—lets some of that weight out. It gives shape to the fog. You start noticing patterns. Triggers. Moments of light you didn’t think were still possible.

And your grief journal? It doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t offer unsolicited advice. It just listens.

And that? That can be everything.

What You Actually Need (Spoiler: Not Much)

Let’s keep it simple:

• A notebook – Could be leather-bound or 99p from the corner shop. Doesn't matter, it's totally up to you.

• A pen – One that feels good in your hand. Bonus points if it doesn’t smudge (unless you like a bit of smudge).

• A spot – Could be your bed, kitchen table, or garden bench. Somewhere safe, somewhere you feel okay to feel.

• You – That’s it. That’s the list.

  
  

No fancy apps. No need for glitter pens or mindfulness playlists (unless you like that kind of thing—in which case go wild).

When Should You Write?

Whenever you need to. Some people write every morning, like clockwork. Others scribble something down at 3am in a dressing gown with a tea they forgot they made.

For me, it was usually before bed. Something about emptying my brain before trying to sleep made the nights feel less haunted. I kept my grief journal on my nightstand, tucked under a dog-eared novel, easy to grab but never demanding.

Try a few different times. Notice when you feel most honest. That’s your sweet spot.

What If I Don’t Know What to Say?

Totally normal. Some days you’ll stare at the page thinking, “What’s the point?” But here’s the thing: even writing nothing is part of the process. Even if all you manage is, “I miss you.” That counts. That’s brave. That’s real.

If you’d like a gentle nudge, try one of these:

• “Today, I felt…”

• “I wish you were here because…”

• “I’m angry about…”

• “I laughed today when…”

• “This memory keeps following me…”

  
  

Pick one. Ignore the rest. Or just scribble your name until something else comes.

There’s no wrong way to do this.

Can You Write Letters to Them?

Yes. A thousand times yes.

Some of my most healing entries were letters to my husband, Stephen. I’d tell him about the garden. About how our daughter was doing. About silly things like which neighbour forgot to put out the bins again.

It helped me feel connected. Still tethered to something that mattered. Sometimes I could even hear his voice in my head while I wrote.

And that comforted me more than I can explain.

What About the Ugly Days?

You know the ones. The anniversaries. The birthdays. The inside-joke days. The should-be-here days.

They hit like a truck.

Your grief journal can hold that pain too. It can be a scream on paper. A shaky, tear-soaked letter. Or just a giant black X scrawled across a page.

On my husband’s first birthday after he died, all I managed was:

“I shouldn’t be doing this alone. But I am. And somehow, I still got through today.”

That was enough.

Do You Have to Write Every Day?

Nope. This isn’t a habit tracker or a self-help plan. You're allowed to skip days, weeks even. Sometimes life takes over. Or your brain goes numb.

Some days you’ll write pages. Others, nothing at all. That’s okay. Your grief doesn’t run on a schedule—and your journal doesn’t either.

The page doesn’t judge you. It’ll wait until you’re ready.

The page doesn’t judge you. It’ll be there when you need it.

Mix It Up (If You Want To)

Your grief journal doesn’t have to be made of just words. Try adding:

• Drawings

• Photos

• Dried flowers

• Quotes

• Angry scribbles

• Song lyrics

• A poem, maybe

• A ticket stub from that day you almost felt like yourself again

  
  

One of my pages just says, “WHY WHY WHY” in big red marker. That was a rough one. But I look back at it now and I remember that pain and think, I made it through that.

Where to Keep It

Wherever feels right, totally your call.

Some people tuck theirs in a drawer. Others leave it in plain sight on a bookshelf.

Mine lives in a shoebox with Stephen’s watch and a half-burnt candle. A little time capsule. Sacred. Ugly. Beautiful.

If you’re worried someone might read it, hide it, find a safe spot. Or use a locked digital notebook with a password. But if you can—try handwriting it. There’s something about that tactile connection. It makes it feel more like you.

One Small Warning

Sometimes journaling stirs up more than you expect. Like opening a window and getting hit with a gust of wind you weren’t ready for. That’s okay.

Pause. Breathe. Text a friend. Watch something daft. Come back later—or don’t.

Your grief journal is here to support you. Not overwhelm you, it's not an obligation.

Does It Ever Get Easier?

You know what? Kind of. Not in an “I'm all better now” sort of way. But the pain softens around the edges. You get stronger. Not by choice, but because love doesn’t disappear when someone dies. It keeps living inside you. Quietly. Fiercely.

When I look back through my grief journal, I see it. The first raw pages, the angry scribbles, the slow return of hope. It’s all there. Like tree rings. Proof I kept going.

Final Thoughts (Because Endings Are Awkward)

If you’re even thinking about starting a grief journal, that’s not a small thing. That’s a huge act of bravery. For them. Of care. For them. And for yourself. You don't need to get it right. You just need to start.

And if you've already started, and it’s weird and messy and not at all like you imagined? Good. That means it’s real.

So go on—write the next word. Or don’t. Just knowing the page is there might be enough today. And when you’re ready… maybe come back and tell me how it’s going. Or what surprised you. What helped.

What about you? Have you started a grief journal yet? Or are you still feeling it out? Drop me a comment below—I’d genuinely love to hear your story.And if you’re not ready to share? That’s okay too. Just know you’re not alone.